Springtime for Donald*

What a beautiful spring day in the Northeast yesterday! The kind of day that makes you, right now, wherever you are, city folks or out in the country, snuggled in quilts or riding the bus, just turn to the nearest Real American around you, even your own reflection in the mirror and . . . just . . . sing:

It’s springtime for Donald and Vladimir!
Winter for NATO and Ukraine
Putin’s Manchurian Candidate
Is helping Make Russia Great Again!

Oh, it’s springtime for Donald and Vladimir,
Winter for Syrian refugees
Sorry if your doctor’s Iranian,
And judges belong on their knees

Yes, it’s springtime for Donald on Twitter
Please get your facts from Kellyanne
Congress had better just smile and nod
When Spicer says it’s not a ban

It’s springtime for Donald and the alt-right!
The Times and the Post are fake news
Read Breitbart so you’ll be the first to know
When Bannon puts a ban on the Jews!

Now ev’rybody –

*Apologies to Thomas Pynchon (from whom I stole the intro) and Mel Brooks (who gave us this):

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Music For Marchers

1. The Opportunity

In mid-September 2001, about a week after terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center towers, Laurie Anderson played a concert at Town Hall in New York City. Here is what she said when she began:

We want to dedicate our music tonight

to the great opportunity that we all have

to begin to truly understand

the events of the past few days,

and to act upon them,

with courage and with compassion,

as we make our plans

to live in a completely new world.

Opportunities we didn’t ask for, opportunities that we fear, are still opportunities. We missed the one we faced back then, but let’s recognize the one we face as a country today — and act upon it.

2. Let’s Renew Ourselves Now

Leonard Cohen, improvising in front of perhaps 600,000 people at the Isle of Wight festival in 1970:

I know it’s been cold, and I know it’s been damp.

I know you’ve been sitting all night long.

But let’s renew ourselves now, let’s renew ourselves now, let’s renew ourselves now.

3. Marchons, Marchons

I don’t care how many times you’ve watched this movie or this scene, it’s impossible to see it without feeling something. So watch it again. And march on, march on.

Then They Came for my Job — and No One was Left to Speak for Me

Everybody loves Martin Niemoller. Wikipedia will tell you he is famous for his “provocative poem about the cowardice of German intellectuals following the Nazis’ rise to power and subsequent purging of their chosen targets, group after group.” Here’s the original form of that poem, in case it hasn’t come across your Facebook feed lately:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.

It’s a lovely piece to quote: it reckons with the past, signals enlightenment and moral clarity, and challenges us all to live up to its ideals. You pretty much can’t help feeling a little more ethical and upright when you read it. Still, before we get too complacent, I’d like to ask you to accompany me, and Niemoller, on a short tour of recent American economic and political history. I want to see if we’ve really learned to speak up for others as well as we think we have. Humor me, you don’t really mind, do you?

First they came for the Socialists — this feels like a quaint anachronism now, but the Socialist party was highly relevant politically in the United States in the early 1900’s. The Socialists had two representatives in Congress and high water marks of 6% of the popular vote in the 1912 presidential election for socialist Eugene Debs and almost 17% in 1924 for socialist-supported progressive Robert LaFollette. (By contrast, Gary Johnson won 3% and Jill Stein won 1% of the popular vote in 2016.) Within 25 years, discredited by American politics and world events, the Socialists were more or less irrelevant in the U.S., winning less than 0.1% of the presidential vote from the 1950’s on. Some people did speak out, but the tide was against them. You and I weren’t around then, in any case.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists —  much of this happened in our lifetimes. Labor unions were highly influential in the United States for most of the 20th century, especially during what’s known as the Great Compression, the period following the New Deal reforms when income inequality declined dramatically. From Wikipedia:

This “middle class society” of relatively low level of inequality remained fairly steady for about three decades ending in early 1970s, the product of relatively high wages for the US working class and political support for income leveling government policies.

This is clear in this chart that tracks income inequality over time. This income leveling correlates well to labor union membership, which grew steadily during the New Deal, and eventually reached almost 35% — more than 1 in 3! — of salaried workers in 1954. Union membership gradually declined from that point. The best statistics start in 1983, when around 20% of the work force still belonged to unions, and they show another 50% decline to just 11% of the work force in 2015. For my generation (I am in my mid-40’s), and for the so-called new economy, I think we can say that we’ve played out Niemoller’s script pretty much as written: few of us were unionists, and few of us have paid attention as union influence declined throughout our working lives. (Uber rides are cheap and convenient, so who cares if the drivers have no rights and the company can raise its take from fares at will? I bet a hundred years ago there would have been a strike.)

Then they came for the Industrial Cities. Here I am talking about both big (Detroit, MI, population 1.85M in 1950) and small cities (Youngstown, OH, population almost 170K in 1960). Since then, both cities have shrunk by about 60%! The history of these cities (and many more like them) in the 20th century is a complex mix of economics, sociology, and racism, but here’s the world’s shortest introduction:

U.S. cities and industry in the North and Midwest grew rapidly in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, powered by a huge wave of  European immigrants. Then World War I created a labor shortage, and blacks from the South migrated north to fill the gap. This began the Great Migration of blacks to cities in the North and (eventually) the West. Apart from a short break during the Great Depression, the migration continued for the next 40-50 years, transforming the black population from 80% rural-20% urban to the exact opposite — 80% urban-20% rural — in little more than half a century.

As they came to the white-dominated cities, incoming blacks were steered to neighborhoods with lower economic opportunity and investment, away from whites, a morally bankrupt process known as redlining. (For a history of redlining that goes beyond Wikipedia, read Ta-Nehisi Coates’s mighty essay, The Case for Reparations.) Meanwhile, whites tended to concentrate in their own segregated parts of the same cities, and eventually to move away from the cities altogether as road networks improved (white flight). Some of the industrial jobs that brought blacks to the cities went to the suburbs with the white population, some began to go overseas, and some were lost to automation, with the latter trend showing no signs of abating. In just 20 years (1967-1987), Philadelphia, New York City, Detroit, and Chicago all lost over 50% of their manufacturing jobs. Some cities managed to reorient around the technology or financial sectors (Boston, New York), while others lost significant population and income that they’ve never regained. (For more on the relationship between lost industrial jobs and inner city poverty, you can read William Julius Wilson; here is a short summary paper.)

Who spoke out for these cities, for their minority populations and for their financially starved schools? Not those whites who moved to the suburbs to get away from blacks, and not the mainstream Democratic party of the 1980’s and 90’s, which decided it needed to distance itself from inner city concerns in order to win elections. Maybe you did?

Then they came for the Heartland. Or perhaps for the U.S. manufacturing economy, depending on whether you prefer to view things geographically or economically. This has been the subject of much debate since the election, because Trump’s margin of victory came from three “Rust Belt” states (PA, MI, WI) that he had been expected to lose, and because it’s believed that his margin of victory in those states came from dissatisfied white working class voters either seeking change or lashing out either at bullying elites or at bullied minorities or immigrants. (This is probably a lousy explanation of voter dynamics in Pennsylvania.) Frustratingly, these discussions have devolved into arguing over whether these voters are motivated by economic or social-cultural factors (as though it were easy to separate the two) and whether they deserve sympathy (as though we’ve never seen anyone bully others while being bullied at the same time).

No matter how you view the politics here, we should be able to come to some kind of agreement on the economic facts. Here’s a recent article suggesting that the Rust Belt is not a struggling region, because other parts of the country are worse off: the states we are talking about are all in the middle third of U.S. states by median income. Sure, they’re not Connecticut or California, but they’re not Arkansas or Mississippi either. This is true enough as far as it goes, but it fails to consider decline. As a quick back-of-the-envelope exercise, I pulled up the income data and sorted the states top to bottom by median income as of 2015 and as of 1995. Here’s what I found:

  • The state with the biggest decline in ranking over the last 20 years (from #5 to #28)? Wisconsin.
  • The state with the second biggest decline (from #14 to #31)? Michigan.
  • Five of the ten states with the biggest drop in ranking form a contiguous region at the heart of the Rust Belt: Wisconsin, Michigan, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. (There are no other clusters; the other five states are completely non-contiguous.)

At this point, these Rust Belt jobs are more likely lost to automation than to other states or countries (though there is some of the latter) or incoming immigrants from lower-income countries (virtually none coming into the Midwest). So it’s hardly clear what to do. Still, there’s not much sympathy for these people’s plight on my Facebook feed, where most people (1) have college or graduate degrees and professional occupations, (2) live in desirable areas, and (3) are frustrated and terrified, as I am, to see Trump in power.

Then they came for — OK, who’s next? Are you? What job will you have in twenty years, or what job will your children have, when:

  • Economic opportunity appears to be declining, not increasing, across generations.
  • The technology sector, which is not very labor intensive, and also finds it easy to move jobs around or offshore, is coming to dominate the (non-service) economy. (Just to give you an idea, Facebook is the 7th most valuable company in the world and employs only 13,000 people, a fraction of the workforce of the industrial behemoths of 50 years ago, whose employees numbered in the hundreds of thousands.)
  • Automation is increasing, and potentially applies to more and more jobs, both in and out of the tech sector, as technology itself becomes ever more capable.
  • The gig economy is rising, and there doesn’t appear to be an obvious limit on what kind of jobs can be gig-ized. (Gig workers have even less leverage than long-term employees.)
  • The financial industry, which has grown rapidly over the last several decades, provides relatively little economic value relative to the human capital invested in it, and might be ripe for contraction. You could speculate that the same might be true of marketing as well (another industry where too many of the well-educated settle), or at least that it could be done more cheaply. If our news stories can be replaced by crap written on the cheap in Eastern Europe, why not the ads?

Shifting into my ominous Rod Serling voice: with the manufacturing economy gone, both in the cities and out, with more and more people shifted into low-wage service jobs, with labor as powerless as it seems it’s ever been, with our economy sliced up into strata, and the humans in each one of those strata cut away in turn — who will be left to speak for you when they come for you? And how will you feel with Niemoller’s warning, turned into prophecy now, running on a loop over and over, not just on your Facebook feed but inside your head?

Elvis Costello Resists

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At the start of October, I went to see Elvis Costello at Town Hall, a small theater near Times Square with a history of hosting political meetings. You can see framed programs from some of those meetings, hazy, fading memories of the past, as you walk into the building:

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The show had been loosely billed as a review of Elvis’s life and career, aligned with the memoir he released last summer, and I was looking forward to a few hours spent listening to him resculpting his songs in new and deeply satisfying ways. (I still felt warm from the time I saw him carry this off several years ago, at Carnegie Hall of all places, when he opened the show by playing the entire first side of My Aim is True, sang songs from all over the map, and told the kind of stories you might hear from the cool uncle you wish you had.)

For the first half hour, the show felt much like that night at Carnegie Hall. The stage was dominated by a giant TV, which showed 80’s Elvis videos as we waited for him to come on, then, once he did, ran a slide show of old family photos (hazy snapshots from the past again) and pictures from his early tours behind him as he played (solo, with acoustic guitar). He gave us both old and recent standards, culminating in a lovely rearrangement of Everyday I Write the Book. But as I burrowed deeper into my plush chair, getting comfortable for a couple more hours with Elvis’s fabulous songbook, he walked stage right, sat down at the piano, and smashed the time machine to bits.

In a halting, almost shattered voice, accompanied by the most austere, jagged piano figures you could imagine, he sang Shipbuilding, perhaps his greatest song. Written at the time of the Falklands war, Shipbuilding is a biography of out-of-work men in the English shipyards, waiting for the war to restart the shipyards and bring them jobs,

A new winter coat and shoes for the wife
And a bicycle on the boy’s birthday

and also for the warships that emerge from the shipyards to take those boys away, and bring them to their graves. “Is it worth it,” Elvis asks, and then asks again in a later verse that I hadn’t known before,

A small bunch of flowers is all that you get
And a box to bury the baby

I had heard Elvis sing the song before, but not like this. I wish I knew how to describe the cocktail of regret and loss and compromise and inevitability I heard in his voice, but all I can do is point you to another song: if you listen to Springsteen’s Highway Patrolman, you’ll catch the same emotions when you hear Bruce’s voice trail off as he sings When it’s your brother, sometimes you look the other way at the end of the second verse. Hearing Elvis now, you could see shipyards, but also car factories on the outskirts of town, and mom and pop stores on Main Street, all of them filled with people’s dread of decisions they might know they’ll come to regret but still can’t avoid making. By the time the song’s resolution — diving for dear life, when we should be diving for pearls — exploded from the stage, you felt the full weight of the present day, of this election. Somehow, in just four minutes, Elvis had managed to make you feel the dilemmas of Trump voters deep down in your bones, more convincingly than any analysis I’ve read before or since the election. But he was only getting started.

He sang Deep Dark Truthful Mirror, an answer record in some ways, about facing up to the consequences of whatever choices you’ve made. Then, still at the piano, he started to tell us about a musical he was working on with the playwright Sarah Ruhl. It is an adaptation of the 1957 film A Face in the Crowd, which tells the story of the media-driven rise and fall of an American demagogue. If hearing Elvis sing Shipbuilding wasn’t enough to convince you he was addressing today’s political climate, the new songs he had written for the musical made it even plainer. He sang as the anti-hero, promising the angry and ignored to be their champion. He sang silly jingles that scoot back and forth across your screen and sell you silly things. And he sang for and with the faces in the crowd, all of us looking ourselves in the mirror and trying to find some common ground. The songs were theatrical, raw, maybe still works in progress — but they felt necessary and Elvis got them across. I am no fan of musicals, but I can’t wait to see what these songs will be like, and what they will mean, by the time they hit the stage, in the full blossoming of Trump’s America.

And then the finale. Given the range of Elvis’s songbook, it’s ironic that the song  he is most associated with in the public imagination, What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding, is one he didn’t even write. But it is, and you won’t feel like you got your money’s worth unless you hear him play it, will you? Still, I’m not sure the song ever felt like it had more at stake than when Elvis sang it at Town Hall to close this show. And, as he sang it, the giant TV behind him projected a late 70’s, Armed Forces-era poster with the headline of the evening, Elvis’s answer to the America of Donald J. Trump, the next president of the United States: DON’T JOIN!

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Soon it was over, and it was hard to believe we actually had to leave the building. But we did, and as I walked downstairs, the faded programs on the walls, from Town Meetings of long ago, were suddenly as sharp and timely as anything you might see on TV or on your Facebook feed. The past is not dead, not even past, as Faulkner said, and now all of us have many more town meetings to go to.

The Models Were Telling Us Trump Could Win

Nate Silver got the election right.

Modeling this election was never about win probabilities (i.e., saying that Clinton is 98% likely to win, or 71% likely to win, or whatever). It was about finding a way to convey meaningful information about uncertainty and about what could happen. And, despite the not-so-great headline, this article by Nate Silver does a pretty impressive job.

First, let’s have a look at what not to do. This article by Sam Wang (Princeton Election Consortium) explains how you end up with a win probability of 98-99% for Clinton. First, he aggregates the state polls, and figures that if they’re right on average, then Clinton wins easily (with over 300 electoral votes I believe). Then he looks for a way to model the uncertainty. He asks, reasonably: what happens if the polls are all off by a given amount? And he answers the question, again reasonably: if Trump overperforms his polls by 2.6%, the election becomes a toss-up. If he overperforms by more, he’s likely to win.

But then you have to ask: how much could the polls be off by? And this is where Wang goes horribly wrong.

The uncertainty here is virtually impossible to model statistically. US presidential elections don’t happen that often, so there’s not much direct history, plus the challenges of polling are changing dramatically as fewer and fewer people are reachable via listed phone numbers. Wang does say that in the last three elections, the polls have been off by 1.3% (Bush 2004), 1.2% (Obama 2008), and 2.3% (Obama 2012). So polls being off by 2.6% doesn’t seem crazy at all.

For some inexplicable reason, however, Wang ignores what is right in front of his nose, picks a tiny standard error parameter out of the air, plugs it into his model, and basically says: well, the polls are very unlikely to be off by very much, so Clinton is 98-99% likely to win.

Always be wary of models, especially models of human behavior, that give probabilities of 98-99%. Always ask yourself: am I anywhere near 98-99% sure that my model is complete and accurate? If not, STOP, cross out your probabilities because they are meaningless, and start again.

How do you come up with a meaningful forecast, though? Once you accept that there’s genuine uncertainty in the most important parameter in your model, and that trying to assign a probability is likely to range from meaningless to flat-out wrong, how do you proceed?

Well, let’s look at what Silver does in this article. Instead of trying to estimate the volatility as Wang does (and as Silver also does on the front page of his web site, people just can’t help themselves), he gives a careful analysis of some possible specific scenarios. What are some good scenarios to pick? Well, maybe we should look at recent cases of when nationwide polls have been off. OK, can you think of any good examples? Hmm, I don’t know, maybe…

brexit-headlines

Aiiieeee!!!!

Look at the numbers in that Sun cover. Brexit (Leave) won by 4%, while the polls before the election were essentially tied, with Remain perhaps enjoying a slight lead. That’s a polling error of at least 4%. And the US poll numbers are very clear: if Trump overperforms his polls by 4%, he wins easily.

In financial modeling, where you often don’t have enough relevant history to build a good probabilistic model, this technique — pick some scenarios that seem important, play them through your model, and look at the outcomes — is called stress testing. Silver’s article does a really, really good job of it. He doesn’t pretend to know what’s going to happen (we can’t all be Michael Moore, you know), but he plays out the possibilities, makes the risks transparent, and puts you in a position to evaluate them. That is how you’re supposed to analyze situations with inherent uncertainty. And with the inherent uncertainty in our world increasing, to say the least, it’s a way of thinking that we all better start becoming really familiar with.

The models were plain as day. What the numbers were telling us was that if the polls were right, Clinton would win easily, but if they were underestimating Trump’s support by anywhere near a Brexit-like margin, Trump would win easily. Shouldn’t that have been the headline? Wouldn’t you have liked to have known that? Isn’t it way more informative than saying that Clinton is 98% or 71% likely to win based on some parameter someone plucked out of thin air?

We should have been going into this election terrified.

Three Election Thoughts

I went to bed around 11 when the outcome seemed obvious, woke up around 2 and couldn’t resist making sure it was really true, then lay awake in bed for the next few hours trying to process it. I can’t remember another time when I found it so hard to even catch hold of a coherent thought. Here are my three best attempts.

  1. A lot of us are saying this isn’t the country we thought we knew. Look, here’s what you thought you knew a day ago: if you picked 100 people across the country at random, about 49 would vote for Hillary, about 46 for Trump, the remaining 5 or so for someone else, and things would trundle along as usual. Now it turns out that one or two of those people that you thought would vote for Hillary actually voted for Trump. That’s a big deal, and it has huge consequences, but it’s not like you were wrong about all, or even most, of those people, your fellow Americans. This is still the same country that voted for Obama twice. You were just wrong about one or two people out of 100, and anyway you don’t know what they were thinking.

  2. One thing that *is* different is that the world looks a lot more uncertain now than many of us are used to. So let’s stop saying, like we know for sure, that Trump won because of racism, or misogyny, or stupidity, or whatever you’re absolutely sure is the reason. You were absolutely sure yesterday that Hillary would win, and look what happened. If we’re entering a very different world, let’s not reduce it to easy judgments, or leave the responsibility to figure out that world to other people.

  3. Let’s not forget too that the level of anxiety that many of us are feeling now is closer to the level of anxiety that many other people feel, and cope with gracefully, every day. Yes it sucks to lose your Certainty Privilege, but we’ve probably been unusually lucky to have had it up until now. Right now I am coping with my own uncertainty by hanging on to the things that I am genuinely certain of, like how my sons, age 9 and age 7, deserve better than Trump. Going to try to make this a better world for them. Onward.

I Don’t Think the Bus Driver Hates White People

I have an 8:00 meeting this morning, so I’m going to take the early (6:36) bus in. I almost never go in this early, so to be safe, I am already downstairs putting on my shoes at 6:29. Sometimes I joke that I live so close to the bus stop that if I hear the bus from the second floor window of my house, I still catch it as it goes by. That’s an exaggeration, but not by much. Now I hear a sound outside that could be the bus, but I know it’s not, it’s never this early. Still, I peek out the door.

It’s the bus, already on the corner. Crap.

I dash out. The bus stop is diagonally across from my house, and fortunately, the bus is waiting at a red light. This gives me a chance: I run down to the corner and across the street with the light. Now the bus and I are facing each other, I wave, cross the other way when the light turns as the bus waits an extra couple seconds, and get on. I am feeling good about the world and my place in it.

Still, 6:29, that’s super-early. Unless maybe this is the previous bus, running super-late? I think I should say something to the driver. “Excuse me, which bus on the schedule is this?” It’s the morning, everything is rushed, who knows if I actually said “Excuse me.”

The bus driver, not one I’m familiar with, is not pleased. He barks at me: “It’s whatever bus it is when I get here!” I look behind him, see the bus is mostly empty. I know from experience that if it were the previous bus, running late, it would be overcrowded, so this must really be the 6:36. I give the driver my ticket and try to explain: you’re running way too early, people who count on this bus will miss it, then the next buses are overcrowded and run late, etc. I ask him to wait a few minutes to get back on schedule. He remains very hot, says (yells) that I better stop talking to him, threatens to call the police if I don’t get away from him. The good thing about him yelling at me is that the bus is still not moving. A couple people, breathless from running down the street, get on the bus while we’re going back and forth. I count this as a small victory.

A large man walks up the aisle from the back of the bus. I am hoping for a little support from a fellow commuter. “You better fucking stop talking to him so he can go!” he yells at me. “You’re holding the bus up! He’s going to call the cops!” This guy looks like he’d like nothing better than to slug me. “He’s calling the cops!” The bus driver is not calling the cops. My fellow passenger, though he is louder than the driver, does not actually take a swing at me. I sit down in one of the many empty seats.

The bus doesn’t move.

I take my book out of my bag and try to disappear into it. It is eerily silent. In moments of suspense, time feels suspended. The bus still doesn’t move.

Finally, after what must have been only a short wait but didn’t feel that way, the bus huffs and trundles forward. I check the time. It is exactly 6:36. We have been waiting for just a few minutes.

I mull things over as the bus heads into the city. I feel good that I managed to stay calm through the whole episode. Maybe this will be a good story to tell the children — the importance of keeping your cool. It occurs to me that the bus driver ended up doing exactly what I asked him to — waiting to leave until he was scheduled to, to the minute. Or was that just a coincidence? Something makes me decide to talk to him again, though I can’t tell exactly how or why I make that decision.

The bus pulls in to Port Authority. I am going to wait for everyone else to get off and then try to approach the driver. As the people ahead of me are getting off, I hear the usual end-of-trip courtesies: passengers say thank you, driver says you’re welcome or have a good day. That’s encouraging: this isn’t one of those guys who’s so nasty that people give up on saying thanks at the end of the ride.

Once is everyone else is off, I get off too. The driver is standing to the side. “Thanks for waiting a few minutes at the bus stop,” I say to him. “I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, I just…”

The driver is looking me in the eye. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I get what you were saying.” I talk to him about the schedule, he says he understands, sometimes they get off schedule and it’s hard to keep track. We are talking to each other like people now. He says he’s sorry, and he seems totally sincere. I tell him my name, because that seems like a talking-like-people thing to do, and he tells me his. I was hoping to make peace, but this is more than I expected; in under a minute, our conversation has turned comfortably fraternal. I am feeling good about the world again as I head inside the bus terminal.

Now another man slides over to me. He is fiftyish, tall, thin, with slightly graying hair, wearing jeans and a blazer. “You know,” he says,”I saw the bus driver yelling at you, I got a video on my phone. I’m going to call the bus company.”

I don’t actually want him to call the bus company. I tell him that I just had a good talk with the driver, and that he seemed very direct and sincere. My companion isn’t impressed. “He’s just afraid for his job,” he says. He tells me that the driver has done this (I think he means run ahead of schedule) once before, that people were running for the bus and he didn’t care. He looks at me a little conspiratorially. “I think this guy just hates white people.”

Well. The driver, like the majority of bus drivers I encounter, is black. I am white. The guy I’m talking to now is white. The passenger who was yelling at me earlier is white. Most people on the bus are white, with a few exceptions. What is the logic here, how do you decide that a black man driving a bus full of mostly white people hates them because they’re white? Does the white man who came up to yell at me before hate white people too? Why do we look differently at angry black people than at angry white people?

The man I’m talking to is going his way and I’m going mine, and there isn’t time to ask these questions. But I as I walk up 8th Avenue on a sunny end-of-summer morning, I realize that I’ve lost the tidy story I was going to tell my kids about the virtues of keeping calm. And perhaps a bit of my confidence in those virtues as well.