Along the Fold Jennifer Wenzel (bio) One of the indelible images of Manhattan in late March 2020 was the archive of horror accreting daily on my neighbor’s doormat. Above the fold, the New York Times reported on so many thousand lives lost one day, so many million jobs lost the next. No one who was in New York City in spring 2020 will forget the ambulances wailing nearly nonstop—an awful, inescapable sound that could shatter any numbed state of abstraction in relation to the daily numbers. Yet, after the sheer terror of the first weeks, it became clear that the true horror recorded in the Times lay along the fold: that is, in the stark divide between those most at risk, as reported above the fold, and those able to shelter at home, whose needs were tended to, below. The Times created a robust new “At Home” section, full of tips for what to listen to, watch, cook, make, or otherwise do to pass the endless time, chez vous. “At Home” was (and is) pitched at readers like me: those fortunate and privileged enough to be able to retreat to our cocoons, order in our groceries, and tend our own gardens (or sourdough starters). Those gardens weren’t even entirely metaphorical: my partner started growing lettuce and arugula from seed on the windowsill, while others regrew their scallions in little jars. Although I’ve certainly picked up some helpful tips, I’ve never been able to read “At Home” without a sense of nausea. Fully cognizant that no one, not even me, needs another “My Pandemic Year” narrative, I nonetheless want to think about the pandemic-era newspaper fold and the social relations limned by it. Specifically, how does the fold intersect with the slash in in/habitable, and with the echoes and contradictions and traces of meaning between English and French, as outlined by Thangam Ravindranathan in her evocative meditation on Georges Perec in this issue? If we have learned anything in these months, it is perhaps that this one-word, two-language oxymoron might name the pandemic accommodation to inhabiting a new normal, a mode of living which, in the “old world” or the “before times,” would have seemed (un) inhabitable.1 [End Page 136] This particular notion of in/habitable is a below-the-fold structure of feeling. Although I cannot not grieve all that has been lost in this tough-yet-tattered city and beyond, I also cannot speak for those who must grieve all of theirs who have not lived. Even before the murder of George Floyd in May 2020 and the awakenings that followed, one could look to the coronavirus maps of New York City—where racial and class marginalization and COVID-19 positivity rates overlapped to a shocking-yet-not-surprising degree—to see how very little had changed, even as so much had changed, so quickly. In my household, the sheer terror of the first weeks—the fears that we might fall very ill, that the hospitals might be full, that we might die—receded as it was replaced by what I describe above as the along-the-fold horror: the awful knowledge that we’d probably be just fine, our Zoomable jobs still intact, and therefore able to afford to pay others to expose themselves on our behalf. We tipped everyone, all the time, scattering twenties like talismans. And there was even a public health rationale for this outsourcing of risk: we could do our part to flatten the coronavirus curve by staying home, and to flatten the economic catastrophe curve by spending and donating as much money as possible. And yet, how vast is the gulf between sound public health advice and the project of social justice. The capacity of the affluent to stay home and order in was dependent precisely on the continuing itineration of “essential workers,” the very people whom the real estate market had long pushed to margins of the city, those outer-borough neighborhoods now ravaged by the virus. In this, the pandemic only laid bare and exacerbated the untenable inequalities of the old world, the before times. ________ For several years, I found...
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