Ron Fournier, whose son Tyler has autism, is compiling stories and reflections from readers on the spectrum and from their loved ones. Reach out to Ron here with your own experiences. And be on the lookout for his new book, Love That Boy.
Many Atlantic site readers will know Ron Fournier from his political writings — for many years for the AP, and in recent years for National Journal, part of the Atlantic’s family. Some readers will agree with him from that work. Others, as Ron himself is well aware, will disagree. Ron is a tough guy — a cop’s son from Detroit who did his early newspaper work in small-town Arkansas, someone you can imagine wearing a porkpie hat with a “Press” card in the brim even now. He can take your disagreeing with him.
Whatever your view of politics or political writing, I encourage you to read Ron’s new book, Love That Boy. It is about his coming to terms with, and then embracing, the fact of his son Tyler’s autism. It’s an eloquent, brave, big-hearted book, which Ron Fournier will be glad to have written and readers will be glad to have found. It’s also about the timeless anxieties and emotions of parenthood, and the modern twists thereon. If you start reading I think you’ll keep on. Congrats to Ron for having written it, and to his family on their cohesion.
NB It’s a sign of my sincerity in recommending this book that I do so despite Ron Fournier’s having fallen for the Boiled Frog Myth. “Ever hear the metaphor of a boiling frog?” Ron asks in chapter two. “If a frog is placed in boiling water, it will jump out ...” Ron, nooooo! So if I’m complimenting a boiled-frog book, you know I mean it.
I think what we’re seeing playing out in this Notes thread is the division within the autism community. It’s a divide (if I might over generalize for the sake of the discussion) between those focused largely on high-functioning autistic people and the support they need and those geared more toward low-functioning autistic people and the need for research.
Into that breach comes Ari Ne’eman, a person with autism and a mission: He’s a zealous advocate for services that support people on the spectrum. It was Ari who pointed me to Hillary Clinton’s remarks on the subminimum wage. I asked him to respond to the readers defending the exemption for certain employers who hire disabled people, namely in “sheltered workshops.” Ari directed me to two long posts he’s written, here and here, under the title “(Almost) Everything You Need to Know About Sheltered Workshops.” First, here’s Ari with an overview of the places we’re debating about:
Sheltered workshops are work centers which exclusively or predominantly employ people with disabilities. Many hold 14(c) certificates, so named after the section of the Fair Labor Standards Act allowing certain employers to pay disabled workers less than minimum wage.
Today, approximately 228,600 workers with disabilities are paid under 14(c), the majority of which are paid less than the minimum wage (a minority of employers also use 14(c) certificates to pay under the prevailing wage rate required by federal contracts). While there are more workers than that in sheltered workshops, the population covered under 14(c) tends to be the most focused on by advocates, as many garner little economic benefit from their work, some making less than a dollar an hour.
From Ari’s section, “What’s the problem with sheltered workshops?”:
At a basic level, sheltered workshops suffer from a fundamental conflict of interest.
As a service-provider, the workshop is tasked with helping a worker with a disability to pursue their preferred career and maximize their earnings. As an employer, the workshop has little incentivize to lose their most productive employees or add to their payroll costs. Make no mistake: even non-profit workshops are businesses, and like any business, they will seek to maximize their profits and economic viability.
Workers with the greatest likelihood of success in the general workforce are those that workshop supervisors are most loath to part with, as they are depended on to allow the workshop to deliver on its contracts. Workers in sheltered workshops lack any recourse to improve their economic prospects – because the people whose job it is to assist them in doing so have a vested interest in keeping them where they are.
Hearing this made a lightbulb come on. I’m a dandelion.
Part of this sounds like that whole “I’m-a-special-snowflake” crap that has been pushed around these days. But this is exactly how someone with Aspergers or autism can feel. On the downside, they might feel like a weed, a nuisance to the rest of the neurotypical world. It’s how I’ve felt at times. But the thing is, dandelions have benefits as well. What might not fit well on a lawn, might make a good wine or a balm.
But I think most employers, even in the nonprofits, tend to go for flowers, people that are “beautiful,” put-together, who know how to make small talk and aren’t moody or plain weird.
Maybe this is why the unemployment rate among those with autism is something like 85 percent. (No, that isn’t made up.) Our work culture is one that is geared towards efficiency. We want workers we don’t have to really train, let alone accomodate. So what happens when you get someone who is autistic and needs to be cultivated and isn’t geared towards being efficient? They don’t last long in their jobs.
I don’t think the job market was always like this. I think there was a time when companies and groups were interested in investing in the worker. Of course those with autism were locked up in institutions, so the old days weren’t so good. But I think we need to bring back the notion or nurturing workers instead of making them fit some template.
What needs to be done is a radical overhaul of how we see those with autism. In the profile of Somme, it is noted that employers need to gear themselves to be places that can accommodate autistic workers:
One significant challenge in utilizing individuals with autism is that many employers don’t always see the upside in hiring individuals who can be considered rigid and moody or a have poor communication skills. Because of this, Specialisterne focuses on developing new approaches that allow businesses to tap into the potential of this unique demographic. Sonne believes that innovative employment programs, that focus on individuals with special needs, can turn out some of the most diligent, dependable and productive employees.
Sonne’s company Specialisterne, has a unique approach in how they hire and work alongside persons with autism:
Work Design: Traditional approach: Work design derives business needs from stable strategies and plans. Jobs are designed by determining the tasks a given job requires, translating these tasks into job descriptions and then placing individuals into stable organizational roles.
New Approach: Design jobs to maximize potential for particular individuals to create value. Project roles are customized so they “work” for short-term needs but can evolve as needs change.
But while I’m glad for Sonne and Specialisterne, I have to deal with this world, the world where autism is still a puzzle or frustration.
So, at the risk of offending potential and future employers, I will say this: I’m a dandelion. I am rough around the edges. I am not pretty, I am not great at small talk and I will not be easy to get to know. But if you work with me, you will see a creative side that can produce things you never even thought of.
My brother-in-law has Down’s syndrome, and he works jobs for less than minimum wage. He does not really understand numbers, and he has minimal verbal skills. He frequently does not talk at all.
I remember he once came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder; he wanted to show me (wordlessly) that he had two dollar bills. At the time, he did not understand that they were worth less than a 20 dollar bill. He may understand the difference now.
In spite of his profound disabilities, he can clean and do laundry. It means the world to him that he earns his own money; it makes him like his (able) brothers. And the jobs that hire him do not get $7.25/hour worth of work. I think we are all happy with the arrangement.
Several other readers provided more smart pushback in the comments section, and my colleague Chris edited together some of the best responses below. This first reader insists we need to draw more distinctions in this debate:
Fournier’s post seems to throw all people with disabilities into one pot. Some disabilities (say, sitting in a wheel chair) may be a handicap for some jobs, but there are plenty of other jobs where a person with this disability can work just as well as someone without disabilities. Paying the disabled person a lower wage is unfair.
But there are also people with much more severe (in the sense of hindrance to work) disabilities.
Their work is more like supervised playing, the results of which people will only buy out of charity (say, pottery made by someone with the Down syndrome). Allowing these people this work is very helpful for their self esteem but it simply isn’t worthwhile from a purely economic standpoint, so paying them a federal minimal wage will destroy these opportunities.
Deciding which person falls into which category is another thorny issue, but treating every disability the same is not the answer.
Another reader has a real-life example of such distinctions:
I have a brother-in-law on the autism spectrum, and a co-worker with MS [multiple sclerosis]. My co-worker has the much more apparent disability; he is reliant on voice activation for much of his workday. My brother is fully physically capable, is communicative, and can do most tasks, but emotionally- and responsibility-wise, he’s a 13 year old.
My co-worker likely makes more money than I do, and he deserves it; he has a master’s degree and is an excellent employee.
My brother had a “shelter job” for years, making ~$4.50 an hour, but also receiving close supervision and peer interaction, and the “company” he worked for dumped all proceeds into staff and facilities to provide their employees with access to low-cost therapy, sports leagues, and other events.
But he quit working there to try and make “more money,” and he’s quit or been fired from about six jobs in two years. He’s currently unemployed and on a waiting list to get back into his old position.
This next reader gives an impassioned defense of the sheltered workshops that hire the disabled:
Not every employer is looking to exploit their workers. The majority of sheltered workshops are non-profits who contract with local businesses and provide critical life skills (and often residences) to their workers. The majority of these workshops barely break even.
The program that is in place under the FSLA [Fair Labor Standards Act] is closely regulated and observed by the Department of Labor. You have to have a special certificate to employ individuals with vocational disabilities, and even then you have to base their pay rates on their specific disability in relation to the work they are performing.
I am an unabashed progressive who hates unfair wages, but this is a program that is helping the disabled, not exploiting them.
The people who are in sheltered workshops are often extremely disabled for the work they are performing. To these individuals, the job itself means considerably more than the pay. It is a point of pride to be able to engage in meaningful work at all. If you get rid of differential wages for the disabled, people will stop hiring the disabled, and a significant source of pride and feelings of normalcy in those people’s lives will be diminished.
Of course, Hillary Clinton isn’t thinking about any of those things. She’s just sucking up for votes and trying to sound like she cares about the “little people.”
One more reader with a real-life example:
I have family member who did one of those programs. She needs close monitoring and regular (like every 10 minutes) direction and feedback. In hiring you have to ask yourself, “Can this person do the job without unreasonable supervision?” In her case, the answer is no.
Here’s another powerful story for our ongoing series. This reader asked to remain anonymous “because most people who know me in my adult life don’t know about my diagnosis”:
I’ve been following The Atlantic’s coverage of women on the autism spectrum. There’s a particular problem, as you all rightly point out, for autistic women/girls because there is not enough research in the area. Because of this, it is very hard for people like me to find information about ourselves, and it is both jolting and relieving for me to find descriptions that mirror my own experiences with autism (or Asperger’s, as I was originally diagnosed).
That was particularly the case when I read Wildhood’s recent article about “looking autistic” and the trouble with passing. She covered a lot of the feelings that I’ve had when somebody denies my autism (I don’t really tell people about it anymore, because those interactions are too hard and, actually, shaming).
I’d like to talk a little bit about why it’s problematic to try to make an autistic person “normal.”
I’m somewhat unusual for an autistic woman in that I received my diagnosis fairly early (late elementary school), but I’m very typical in that my outward symptoms lessened over time, thanks in large part to therapy and work done by my parents. These efforts to make me seem “normal” have been so successful that in the rare instance that I disclose my diagnosis to somebody, they often deny that I could possibly have autism*, or tell me that mine is clearly so mild I don't actually have a disability.
This probably looks like success: I can pass for normal. For a while in my late teens, I convinced myself that I was normal. Despite this, the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized that this isn’t the case, and the more I’ve realized that the outward veneer of “normalcy” hides an interior that is still impaired, in some ways quite significantly.
To speak just a little bit about this: I’ve realized that I still process most social interaction through the logical part of my brain. I’m extremely intelligent and so I’m usually quite capable of logic-ing through basic social interactions, and much of my interactions are based on me consciously developing strategies for interaction. I make up much of the rest through training that I had in therapy. I know to paste on a smile and say “fine thanks, how are you?” when somebody asks how I’m doing, because I practiced that in a therapist’s office.
But I also have trouble around the edges, which I assume the people around me are more or less aware of, and that I seem far less normal the more people know me. I have particular trouble making sense of when to say “thank you,” for example, outside of very particular situations I’ve practiced for. I tend to over-disclose personal information too early in new friendships, something that I try to keep a tight lid on. I still have a great deal of trouble with “mind-blindness” [a cognitive disorder where an individual is unable to attribute mental states to the self and others]. I often have trouble evaluating what other people are thinking/feeling, especially in reaction to me, and this causes me a huge amount of anxiety.
All of this requires mental energy expenditures far above what most neurotypical people must make to carry on basic conversations. I’m constantly filled with anxiety when interacting with new people, and I’ve struggled to form deep friendships as an adult.
The other issue, which I’m still struggling to come to terms with, is that I have some of the more major issues that come with autism, and when they come out, other people have no idea what’s going on. I have trouble with executive function. I have autistic meltdowns when I’m overtaxed (something that has happened very rarely outside of my own home, but the threat of a public meltdown is incredibly worrisome for me). I have issues going into new situations, I am resistant to change, I constantly suppress stimming (self-soothing repetitive motions), I often can’t read humor, I have trouble regulating my tone of voice, etc.
Because I’ve been molded into normalcy on the outside, the idea that I have special needs and that I can’t always control the results if those needs aren’t met isn’t something that people understand. My parents, and my father especially, never quite came to grips with Asperger’s Syndrome as a global neurological disorder, rather than as a series of behavioral quirks that needed to be corrected. My father took the attitude that I needed to be forced “to behave” and to be forced out of my “comfort zone,” rather than using my diagnosis as “an excuse.”
I now realize that in many cases this was like asking somebody on crutches to walk up several flights of stairs, rather than use the “excuse” of their disability to ride the elevator. They might wind up at the top of the building, but they also may be injured getting there.
When I was a child and teenager, I was told to state my needs, only to have them be ignored by the adults around me, until I was overwhelmed in crisis situations that could have been avoided if I had been listened to. I wasn’t protected from bullying in school because I was “overreacting.” I was told that my special interests were wrong and “evil” (that word was literally used—nothing that I was interested in approached evil), and sometimes I was forced to stop engaging in them. I was forced to participate in sports, even though I found them impossibly frustrating and difficult.
The meltdowns that ensued from this were punished, and then I was forced back into situations that led to more meltdowns.
When I was younger, I felt that my parents were making the right decision. I believed that I shouldn’t be allowed to “behave badly” just because I had a psychological problem, and I felt that I was constantly failing to “be good.” Unfortunately, although I was diagnosed independently by two experts in the treatment of autism, we lived too far away for me to receive ongoing treatment from either of them.
I was treated by a regular psychologist who mostly dealt with emotional disturbances and trauma and who had little experience with autism. Thus she didn’t have the insight to explain to my parents that my autistic behaviors were my normal and that I needed to learn coping mechanisms to deal with times when I struggled, rather than just have my behaviors “fixed.”
I’ve realized now that although I’ve been trained to be “normal,” I haven’t been trained to be a healthy autistic person. I wish that rather than trying to make me pass as normal, my parents had learned to support me as I was and am.
*A side-note: It’s surprisingly painful to be told that you don’t have a problem that causes you trouble every single day. I’ve experienced that firsthand and heard about it from a couple of friends who also have issues from childhood that have lasted into adulthood but who now present as normal from the outside. If you want to mentally put them into the category of people with gluten “sensitivity,” that’s fine, but please don’t tell somebody who has trusted you with their diagnosis that they’re wrong about their own mental health to their face. It’s just needlessly hurtful. And bear in mind that all you’re seeing is the way that they present to the world. You can’t see their internal struggle, and you can’t see the (possibly years of) therapy or medication or whatever that got them to the place they’re at today.
Our latest reader contributor and parent of an autistic child strikes a chord with me and my family: Late diagnosis. Check. Solitary life. Check. Crushing rejection. Check. A parent’s desperate dream: “I wish more employers could see past the facade of autism to recognize the smart, hard-working people who simply have minds that are wired differently from the majority of the population.” Here’s our reader in full:
Thanks for sharing so many of these stories. My daughter had some of the typical autism traits as a preschooler, but she was so intelligent, we didn’t think she possibly could be autistic.
As she rose through elementary school, she slowly pulled more into her own little world, and away from all of the other children. By fifth grade, her school guidance counselor told us she was certain my daughter was autistic. As we read more about the spectrum, it was obvious to us, too. We didn’t get her officially diagnosed until she was 16, and then only as a precaution in case she needed help in college.
She never needed help (though she did live at home instead of on campus). She finished college with a 3.9 GPA in biology, with a goal to go to medical school because she always had wanted to help others. Her grades and great MCAT scores earned interviews at medical schools, but she couldn’t get past the admissions interviews.
I understand why they couldn’t see her as a physician. She struggles to look people in the eye. She speaks in a monotone. She answers questions with the fewest words possible. But she would have been amazing at the analytical aspects of pathology.
Crushed by the rejection, she went with a backup plan of lab work. Thankfully, a wonderful instructor saw her potential and accepted her into a histotechnology training program.
When she finished the one-year program, the hospital lab where she trained had no openings for her. For eight months, she got a couple of job interviews a month. Like the med school interviewers, they couldn’t see her working in their labs.
Finally, the lab where she trained had an opening and hired her. They had seen how dedicated and smart she was. Two years later, she is the perfect person to work the overnight shift, which leaves her alone in the lab for about half the shift. Following protocols to the letter every time is so important in lab work, and that’s a strength of many with autism. Her life is very solitary, but she’s happy that she has found her own way to help others.
As parents, it hurt us when she had no real friends in school, and no social life in college, but it never bothered her. It took us a long time to realize her needs for happiness were different from ours. Now, we’re so proud of her, and she even seems proud of herself for finding her own niche in life. I wish more employers could see past the facade of autism to recognize the smart, hard-working people who simply have minds that are wired differently from the majority of the population.
On happiness, it took me years to realize that Tyler’s needs were different from my own. And it was only after digging into research on happiness (and a trip to Monticello, where Thomas Jefferson pursued his) that I sorted through the difference between goodness and pleasure. The latter is what parents most often want for their kids, including neurotypicals. But it’s the former that makes them happy (Marc Gellman sums this up nicely here.)
On employment, it’s worth noting here that Hillary Clinton made big news Monday that was little-noticed in the media. Fielding questions from a campaign audience, Clinton told an autistic lawyer she opposed a Depression-era labor law that allow employers to hire disabled people at a subminimum wage. Sometimes as low as 8 cents per hour. (If you or someone you care about has worked for subminimum wages as a disabled worker, please let me know your story.)
That’s how reader Gary describes his three amazing stepkids:
I was touched by the note about your son Tyler as I read it this morning. It was forwarded to me by my wife of nine years whose three children have all been diagnosed with ASD [autism spectrum disorder]. Her oldest son is 26 and seeking a bachelor’s degree in mathematics with plans to attend graduate school. She has 13-year-old twins who are seventh graders at a public school right now. One of the twins and the oldest son have Asperger’s while the other twin has a more severe form of autism with speech problems and more challenging behavioral issues.
My wife has struggled tirelessly to help her three kids adjust, adapt, and grow into the wonderful human beings they can become. They are so much better off because of their mom. She has faced many obstacles with each child, yet through her fiery determination and strong will, they have overcome those obstacles and were strengthened as a result.
Your note came at a particularly challenging time for her. Last night, as she lay in bed, she told me that she was not a good parent and that she had failed her younger son.
She has adjusted his IEP [individualized education program] so that he does half of his schooling at home under her supervision. He was not particularly excited about his studies that evening and he showed his frustration by ignoring her lessons. This had gone on for about three weeks and she punished him by taking away his various forms of entertainment. She was regretting her decision and felt that he hated her.
I reminded her of how well her two other children have done despite their ASD and how she has helped them overcome so many pitfalls in their lives. I also reminded her that he is so much better off because of her and that he is coming along just like his older brother. She just needed to remember the patience she showed her eldest.
My wife is an amazing woman. She can be so hard on herself because she wants her kids to have a great life. But there are times when so gets depressed trying to make that happen. I can only console her because I don’t understand all of it. The love of a mother for her child is immeasurable, but when there are three of them with ASD and that love is not commonly reciprocated, it can be very difficult to handle.
Your note was uplifting to her when she needed it the most. How do I know this? Her email to me with your forwarded note said, “I love my dandelions!!” I know she does and I know that she is cultivating them in her kitchen for the wonderful characteristics they possess.
Two readers responding to my note on autism reflect two disparate vantage points. The first is a 66-year-old Georgia man with Asperger’s Syndrome, a retired Army officer who has struggled socially his entire life. His subject line: “On the Spectrum.”
[B]oth parents and teachers must understand that not all young people are cut out to be “the leaders of tomorrow”—that some individuals will make their greatest contribution as tinkers or inventors or mechanics or engineers or programmers.
To quote Popeye the Sailor: “I am what I am and that’s all that I am!” And I’ve done okay.
The second is from an elementary school teacher who has taught children on the spectrum. Keith Bohlender of Toronto is neurotypical:
I read “My Little Dandelion,” as well as the Wildhood and Garcia articles, with great interest …. My wife is a speech therapist whose clientele is made up of pre-school children. Many of these children have very recently received diagnoses, or are facing the very real prospect that their beloved child may imminently be diagnosed with ASD [Autism Spectrum Disorder]. My wife is in the exceedingly difficult position of being able, after many years of experience, to expertly recognize the markers that are described in these articles.
She cannot, however, make a formal diagnosis—even when tearfully begged to do so by parents. So, she encourages the parents to seek an opinion from a medical professional.
I am sending all three of these articles to her, with the thought that she may be able to pass them on to some of the parents of her clientele. It may give them comfort and sustenance to read of how adults with ASD are able to cope, contribute and thrive.
Also worth checking out is the video seen above, on how creative expression can help kids with autism. And keep the emails coming—if you’re autistic or the parent of an autistic child and would like to share your story.
I used to dream my son would be an athlete. Now I enjoy watching Tyler chase his own dreams to be a history teacher or comedian. One thing I never considered my boy to be: a dandelion.
Not until I read a Forbes profile on a new acquaintance of mine, Thorkil Sonne, who uses the analogy to describe the brilliant uniqueness of autistic people—like his son and mine:
To most people, the dandelion is nothing more than an annoying weed – something to be rooted out of our lawns and flowerbeds. But what a lot of people don’t know is that, when cultivated, the dandelion is one of the most valuable and useful plants in nature. In many parts of the world, the dandelion is known for its nutritional, healing and medicinal properties. The value of a dandelion is very much dependent on our knowledge and perception of its value.
Most of us don’t want dandelions in our lawns – they don’t fit there. But if you place a dandelion plant in your kitchen garden, and cultivate it, it can turn out to be one of your most valuable plants. Dandelions are used to make beer, wine, salads, and natural medicines. Quite simply, if you choose to cultivate dandelions, you will reap their rewards. So, is a dandelion a weed or an herb? You decide. The same can be said for individuals with autism. The value of what you see depends on your level of understanding and accommodation.
The article describes Thorkil’s efforts to link autistic people with employers who need the distinctive skill sets that come with autism. Most employers don’t know what they’re missing. People with autism aren’t defective; they contribute a special sauce to the human experience. Steve Silberman puts it this way in his book NeuroTribes:
One of the most promising developments since the publication of “The Geek Syndrome” has been the emergence of the concept of neurodiversity: the notion that conditions like autism, dyslexia, and attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder [ADHD] should be regarded as naturally occurring cognitive variations with distinctive strengths that have contributed to the evolution of technology and culture, rather than mere checklists of deficits and dysfunctions.”
After my son’s diagnosis six years ago, I slowly came to the same conclusion and wrote about it here, here, and here. But there is only so much I can do to help the cause—to help neurotypical people understand what it’s like to be autistic and to realize the value autism offers society—because I’m not truly a part of it. Because I am not autistic.
The perspectives I have on people and the world I’ve interacted with thus far in my life are necessarily informed by my [Asperger’s], whether it looks like I’m an Aspie or not. Ultimately, when my friend told me I don’t look autistic, he was essentially affirming my constructed normalcy, my ability to fake it. In high school, I would have relished in this aptitude to appear “same,” and would have taken his remark as a compliment. But I’ve come to realize that each attempt to somehow make myself more “acceptable” to someone else, more lovable, has left me with what is, in the end, a false connection. I don’t want to be judged based on my [autism] alone, but nor do I want it to not matter. I may not “look autistic” from the outside, but if you see with my eyes, I do.
Please read the powerful stories by Wildhood and Garcia, and let me know what you think. And if you’re autistic or the parent of an autistic child and would like to share your story, I’d love to hear from you as well.
Tyler accept his autism far better than his father once did. “It’s a part of me but I don’t find that it’s a big deal, that I have to be talking about it every five seconds,” he says in a video for Autism Speaks that will be released next month with my parenting memoir, Love That Boy. “Like blue eyes: I don’t talk about how I have blue yes. I have autism, that’s it.”
What if the problem isn’t the president—it’s the presidency?
I. A Broken Office
Donald Trump often appears to be a president in rebellion against his office. A president, we have come to expect, hastens to the scene of a natural disaster to comfort the afflicted. After Hurricane Maria devastated Puerto Rico, President Trump arrived tardily and behaved unseriously, tossing rolls of paper towels at storm-battered residents as if he were trying to drain three-point shots.
We have come to expect that when the national fabric rends, the president will administer needle and thread, or at least reach for the sewing box of unity. After white supremacists marched through Charlottesville, Virginia, shouting “Jews will not replace us,” President Trump’s instinct was to emphasize that there were good people among the neo-Nazis.
Ross Douthat's views on the pope are intensely unpopular. But has he identified a fundamental tension in the Church?
Across every continent, in every country, Catholics “find themselves divided against one another,” writes the New York Times columnist Ross Douthat in his new book, To Change the Church. On one side stand the orthodox, who see doctrine and tradition as the best antidote to a changing world. On the other stand the liberals, who yearn for a Church that focuses on pastoring rather than enforcing rigid rules. This “widening theological and moral gulf,” Douthat argues, is potentially “wider than the chasm that separated Catholicism from Orthodoxy, and later from Lutheranism and Calvinism.”
That’s a bold claim to make. After all, the schisms of East and West, Catholic and Protestant, were world-shaking, often bloody events. But in today’s Church—and specifically in this pope—Douthat sees the possibility that the Roman Catholic Church will once again break apart.
The peppy mixed messaging of I Feel Pretty is only the latest reminder: American culture doesn’t fully know what it’s talking about when it talks about attractiveness.
Every once in a while I’ll re-watch an old episode of Friends, because it’s familiar and soothing and there. The other day, Netflix served up one of those flashbacks the show would sometimes air to poke light fun at the friends and at the visual absurdities involved with being alive in the ’80s: Rachel in chintz, Ross and Chandler in tragicomic Flock of Seagulls bouffants, etc. Watching the meta-nostalgia, I was reminded of the existence of a minor character who nonetheless plays a major role in the show’s universe: Fat Monica.
Fat Monica is technically just a younger—and slightly larger—version of Standard-Issue Monica; what becomes wincingly clear, though, as the Friends flashbacks play out, is that Fat Monica differs from the other Monica not just in scale, but in kind. Padded by her former girth, Monica Geller—the person who categorizes her hand towels and designates committees for the planning of birthday parties and is, in general, in thorough control of her life and her Type-A-tastic self—undergoes a transformation: Her voice gets higher. Her movements become jerking and awkward. She giggles a lot, uncomfortably. Remember when, in those late-series episodes of Family Matters, Steve Urkel would go into that flashing box and emerge as the suave Stefan Urquelle? Fat Monica’s metamorphosis is a little like that, but in reverse: The transformation depletes her dignity rather than compounding it. She becomes bashful. Childish. Foolish. Watching the proceedings, you start to wonder whether Monica Geller, for the purposes of the flashback scenes, was given a fat suit or a lobotomy.
Eisenhower—embodying prudence, diligence, and broad-mindedness—offers conservatives in the age of Trump a different model of leadership.
I stood, not long ago, on a chilly, damp, and windy Korean hill at the edge of Demilitarized Zone. With 40 of my students and half-a-dozen faculty we were conducting what the military calls a staff ride—a kind of in-depth treatment of a campaign as a case study in leadership. Mine was one of the concluding talks, in which I played President Dwight D. Eisenhower, telling the American people on July 26, 1953 that the Korean War had ended. But, he reminded them “we have won an armistice on a single battleground—not peace in the world.” His was a sober, moving tribute to America’s allies as well as her soldiers, an expression of “sorrow and solemn gratitude,” ending with a quote from Lincoln’s second inaugural, “with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right.”
As the Trumps prepare to host their first state dinner on Tuesday, a look back at state dinners held by past U.S. presidents, from Eisenhower to Obama.
On Tuesday, President Donald Trump and First Lady Melania Trump will host the first official state dinner of this administration at the White House, honoring visiting French President Emmanuel Macron. As Mrs. Trump’s team and White House staff work on the final details for the formal event, we present a look back at some state dinners held by past U.S. presidents, from Eisenhower to Obama.
The HBO show returns with multiple story threads to unravel and decipher.
The first thing you might notice about Season 2 of Westworld is that the opening credits have changed. During the first season of the HBO drama about an adult theme park staffed by humanoid “hosts,” the introductory title sequence featured a variety of images showing robots being sculpted into life by machines: sinews being painstakingly stretched over bone, skeletal hands playing a piano, a bone-white “couple” who appeared to be making love. In the very first shot a “sun” appears to rise over a mass of muscle and tissue, hinting that the frontier of Westworld isn’t the Old West but the new technology within the hosts. In the second season, though, the image of the lovers has been replaced by a mother cradling an infant. And the homage to Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man that closes out the credits now features a body that’s distinctly female.
It only took five minutes for Gavin Schmidt to out-speculate me.
Schmidt is the director of NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (a.k.a. GISS) a world-class climate-science facility. One day last year, I came to GISS with a far-out proposal. In my work as an astrophysicist, I’d begun researching global warming from an “astrobiological perspective.” That meant asking whether any industrial civilization that rises on any planet will, through their own activity, trigger their own version of a climate shift. I was visiting GISS that day hoping to gain some climate science insights and, perhaps, collaborators. That’s how I ended up in Gavin’s office.
Just as I was revving up my pitch, Gavin stopped me in my tracks.
Fixating on offensive speech amplifies its harms—often, the best course is simply to ignore it.
Last week, the Fresno State creative writing professor Randa Jarrar sparked the latest round of debate about free speech on college campuses when she reacted to Barbara Bush’s death by speaking ill of the dead on Twitter. “Barbara Bush was a generous and smart and amazing racist who, along with her husband, raised a war criminal,” she wrote. “Fuck outta here with your nice words.”
In an unintentional echo of President George W. Bush’s “with us or against us” moral logic, she declared, “PSA: either you are against these pieces of shit and their genocidal ways or you're part of the problem. That's actually how simple this is,” adding the sentiment, “I'm happy the witch is dead. Can't wait for the rest of her family to fall to their demise the way 1.5 million Iraqis have. byyyeeeeeeee.”
The psychological origins of waiting (... and waiting, and waiting) to work
Like most writers, I am an inveterate procrastinator. In the course of writing this one article, I have checked my e-mail approximately 3,000 times, made and discarded multiple grocery lists, conducted a lengthy Twitter battle over whether the gold standard is actually the worst economic policy ever proposed, written Facebook messages to schoolmates I haven’t seen in at least a decade, invented a delicious new recipe for chocolate berry protein smoothies, and googled my own name several times to make sure that I have at least once written something that someone would actually want to read.
Lots of people procrastinate, of course, but for writers it is a peculiarly common occupational hazard. One book editor I talked to fondly reminisced about the first book she was assigned to work on, back in the late 1990s. It had gone under contract in 1972.
In 2003, Congress passed legislation to eliminate sexual assaults against inmates. One young man’s story shows how elusive that goal remains.
Three years ago, the young man who would later be known as John Doe 1 shuffled into the Richard A. Handlon Correctional Facility in Ionia, Michigan. The town of 11,000 residents, which sits in the remote center of the state, houses five prisons, and over the years, it has earned the nickname “I Own Ya.” John, who was 17, had already gotten over the initial fear of going to an adult prison—he had spent several months at a county jail near Detroit and an intake facility in Jackson—but he also knew he would be spending longer at this lonely outpost, a minimum of three years for a couple of home invasions. It was still wintery in April, and his state-issued jacket was poor protection against the drafts coming through the broken windows, shattered by men who had passed through before. “It was pretty ragged,” he recalled recently, “a tear down.”