Tuesday, June 30, 2020

Supporters of London's Oldest Community Cinema Fear for Its Future

Supporters of the oldest community-run cinema in London fear for its independent status after claims from its Board of Trustees that the cinema is not in a strong financial position.

A campaign group started by “members and supporters” of east London cinema the Rio launched a petition last week, alleging that the cinema’s board “are rumoured to want to have a commercial cinema chain operate the Rio”. The petition, which asks members of the public to contact the board and call for their immediate resignation in order to elect a new board in October, currently has over 5,800 signatures. The campaign also fears redundancies for staff, while many are currently furloughed, and disputes the financial insecurity of the cinema.

On their website, the Save the Rio campaign claims: “Recent changes at trustee level have enabled a number of un-elected people to join the Board and push their corporate agenda. They have been moving towards a bare bones staffing structure for some time but are now using the COVID-19 crisis to push this through.”

“They have also mooted looking for other operators, meaning the Rio would no longer be the independent cinema we love.”

According to campaigners, 111 Rio members have written to the board demanding an Emergency General Meeting and their resignation, but the board are yet to respond.

In a statement from the board published on the cinema’s website, it denied intentions to sell but would not rule out redundancies due to the fact that “the charity's position is not strong”.

"It is our job as a Board to ensure that the Rio survives for the long-run and has sufficient funds in place to fund and meet its charitable objectives that it was set up to promote," the statement reads. "We need to build a viable business model to safeguard the Rio, and at the same time retain its independent spirit, and we are hopeful that this is achievable. No decisions have been made, although potential redundancies cannot be ruled out as the Rio seeks to remain viable post reopening.”

It continues: “We would like to emphasise that the Rio is a charity and its charitable aims are firmly embedded in its Articles of Association. Any operational changes will need to be made in this context. We are wholeheartedly committed to these aims, and legally required to do so.”

VICE reached out to its Board of Trustees for a comment but they had no responded at time of publishing.

The Rio Cinema, which has existed for over 40 years in Dalston, east London, is a not-for-profit charity cinema that programmes a diverse range of independent and blockbuster films. As well as commercial screenings, the cinema also holds community screenings for locals and schools in the area. It is currently closed due to the pandemic – one of the many casualties of the coronavirus outbreak that has shuttered pubs, clubs, bars and theatres.



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Young People in the UK Are Leaving the Labour Party Because of Its Leader

Depending on your political inclination, this month has either been a triumph for Labour's Keir Starmer, or a total disaster.

Last week, the new Leader of the Opposition caused a stir when he fired Momentum darling Rebecca Long-Bailey from the shadow cabinet. Long-Bailey had shared an interview with the actor Maxine Peake, who at one point said, baselessly, "The tactics used by the police in America, kneeling on George Floyd's neck, that was learnt from seminars with Israeli secret services." Announcing Long-Bailey's dismissal, Starmer called this "an anti-semitic conspiracy theory".

Critics were upset with Starmer's decision, dubbing it a performative act to rid the cabinet of its far-left faction, rather than take any meaningful action on the documented racism and anti-Semitismwithin the party. Others congratulated Starmer on his speedy response and strong leadership.

This week, Starmer made clear his stance on the Black Lives Matter movement – or "moment", as he referred to it – and its position on defunding the police. "That's nonsense, and nobody should be saying anything about defunding the police," Starmer said on BBC Breakfast. "I worked with police forces across England and Wales, bringing thousands of people to court. So my support for the police is very, very strong, and evidenced in the joint actions I've done with the police."

Later that day, former UKIP leader Nigel Farage retweeted Starmer's interview, expressing support for his position.

And just like that, internal conflicts within the Labour party were reignited. After former leader Jeremy Corbyn's departure, many feared the party's return to centrist politics – something they believe has been cemented with the sacking of Long-Bailey and Starmer's police statement. After the BBC interview, many took to social media to publicise the cancellation of their Labour Party membership (under Corbyn, the party reached a record 500,000 members), while left-wing figures like Owen Jones implored people to stay, claiming their action would "delight the right and disenfranchise [them]".

Nonetheless, many have still decided to part ways with Labour. VICE News spoke to a number of young people about why Keir Starmer's actions had moved them to leave.

'I felt like, under Jeremy Corbyn, as a POC, there was a place in the party for someone like me'

"I voted for [Starmer] in the leadership contest and genuinely thought he was interested in bringing all sides of Labour together, but he's been massively disappointing. As Leader of the Opposition, I expected him to be more vocal when the government was making such bad decisions – and being of Kashmiri heritage, his comments on Kashmir are very worrying and frustrating.

"I don't see any cause for optimism anymore under him. There's no hope for a better Britain. It feels more and more like he wants to protect the status quo – which is his right as leader, but I feel a bit conned. So many promises about keeping to previous political pledges and there's no mention of this.

"I felt like, under Jeremy Corbyn, as a POC, there was a place in the party for someone like me, but I feel like we're being thrown under the bus."

- Irfan Khan, 28

'I believed specifically in Corbyn's vision'

"I only really joined Labour because I really believed in Corbyn's message specifically – I don't really feel like I have any particular party loyalty. I was fully expecting Corbyn to lose badly in 2017 and resign, and ready to cancel my membership when that happened. Of course, that didn’t happen, so I just let my membership roll on for the next couple years.

"When Corbyn did resign in 2019, I stayed in to vote for Long-Bailey for leader, but I was honestly going to leave no matter who won that contest. I believed specifically in Corbyn's vision, and didn’t see anyone who could immediately replace him.

"I only stayed for the first couple weeks of Starmer's leadership because I liked my local Labour MP [Alex Sobel, MP for Leeds North West], but Starmer's lack of response to the leaked Labour report a recently was the straw the broke the camel's back."

- Charlie, 22

'It's come because of a weekend of him showing himself to be [a] cowardly centrist'

"I've cancelled my Labour Party membership because of Keir Starmer. It's come because of a weekend of him showing himself to be the cowardly centrist everyone was afraid he would be. First, by Montreal-screwjob-ing Rebecca Long-Bailey, then by playing both sides in the gender 'debate', and lastly by acting like the CEO of Black Lives Matter and telling us what it's really about, and then proceeding to denounce Black Lives Matter as an organisation on the BBC."

- Ed Mitchell, 26

'So far, Marcus Rashford has done a better job'

"I voted for RLB, but was happy to give Starmer a chance, as you sensibly would. He has since shown a massive diversion back to centre-right New Labour ideals, rather than the policies that brought so many to the party. He seems to have no plan for his platform and is spineless in standing up against the government. It's such an important time to hold the government to account and force U-turns in their bad choices. So far, Marcus Rashford has done a better job at this.

"Starmer only seems interested in headlines for his jibes rather than instigating any challenges to the government's poor handling of COVID. This week's announcement – that he agrees with the BLM movement, except for everything that it stands for – is just another in a parade of empty statements to the media."

- Tom Hornby, 25

'I see nothing that inspires me'

"I joined under [Ed] Miliband as a naïve 16-year-old kid who wanted to see the party become a real vehicle for socialism, with the goal of empowering the working class in this country. I watched Jeremy Corbyn inspire hope among hundreds of communities and millions of young people with his unflinching principles of kindness and solidarity. People were proud to be in his Labour Party because we stood together and cared for each other. He led by example.

"Now, as a cynic with a masters in Political Communication, I see nothing that inspires me. The establishment – including the PLP – succeeded in tearing down everything we built and demonising not just Corbyn himself, but the socialist values we all held. The media are already manufacturing consent for Starmer to be the next Tony Blair and clear up the catastrophic mess that the post-COVID/no-deal Brexit disaster-piece will inflict on this country. I want no part of it. Labour will still have my vote, owing only to the fact that I despise the Tories with every fibre of my being. Our duty now is to organise and unionise workers across the country to protect our class interests by another means, seeing as the Party proves itself to be increasingly obsolete."

- Alex White, 22

'The breaking point was the Labour leaks'

"I joined Labour during university. I wanted to stand for my grandfather's values, who sadly passed away. The whole thing was over before it started, when I started to see the early stages of Starmer's – ironic – red flags.

"The breaking point was the Labour leaks around April. The immediate response – and lack thereof – made me conceptualise just how lacking in direct action this country's leaders will always be. The abuse that individuals, such as Dianne Abbot, took should have been met with extreme discipline and outrage. Things were ignored or downright removed from the public eye for good measure. That doesn't tell me that Keir stands against anything. It's faux-revolutionary politics.

"I want to see everyone on an equal playing field, but if the leader of the party isn't able to deliver this in his own circle, then I immediately thought... 'Well, how the fuck is he going to manage on a National level?'"

- Brogan, 20

'To side with the police was such a spineless act, I lost all respect for him'

"I've been a member since I was 18, mainly because both my parents are Labour, I grew up in a pretty working-class area and I was a big fan of Corbyn's policies – nationalisation of public services, tax reform, etc.

"I flirted with the idea of cancelling after Rebecca Long-Bailey was sacked for retweeting the Maxine Peake interview in The Independent. I, of course, am completely against anti-semitism, but the idea that you can't critique Israel and its practices, even indirectly, is absurd – especially when there are sources that cite the fact that American police have been trained in Israel. Starmer, in my opinion, threw her under the bus, rather than fighting to prove that Labour isn't anti-Semitic.

"Then, after Starmer's statement on the BLM 'moment', as he incorrectly called it, I decided to cancel my membership. The fact that he doesn't understand the Defund The Police message – what BLM, at its core, stands for – shows he's completely out of the loop with the current situation in the UK. To side with the police was such a spineless act – I lost all respect for him.

"I'll still be voting in general and council elections, but can no longer support the party monetarily."

- Ethan Beer, 21



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China Passed Hong Kong's Feared Security Law. Here's What We Know.

It’s only been about 12 hours since its passage, but already the fallout from China’s new national security law for Hong Kong is keenly felt.

The law—which forbids still-undefined acts of secession, subversion, terrorism, and collusion with foreign forces with sentences ranging up to life in prison—was passed unanimously on Tuesday morning by China’s rubber stamp legislature, and is seen by many as an attempt by Beijing to quash dissent in the restive city, which was rocked by a months-long, sometimes-violent pro-democracy protest movement last year.

By the afternoon, the Hong Kong Free Press was reporting that the law had already been signed by Chinese Premier Xi Jinping and inserted into Hong Kong’s Basic Law, effectively bypassing the need for local legislative approval.

The new legislation has been shrouded in secrecy throughout its drafting, and was reportedly only seen by a handful of Hong Kong delegates to the National People’s Congress before its passage.

State-run outlet Xinhua was expected to release more details about the law Tuesday afternoon, and Hong Kong delegates to the legislature and the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference were asked to attend a meeting at China’s liaison office in the city at 3pm, presumably to be briefed on the bill, according to the South China Morning Post. However, as of press time, the full details of the law remained unreleased.

Even so, the effects of the law’s passage, even before it was scheduled to go into effect on Wednesday, were swift and far-reaching.

The HKFP reported that a pro-independence activist, Wayne Chan, had skipped bail and fled the territory over fears of arrest under the new law. Despite warning of “mass arrests” under the new law, Chan vowed to keep fighting from afar.

“But I promise you all, my departure does not mean I have given up. I know the door to Hong Kong independence has been opened,” he said.

China has repeatedly labeled advocating for Hong Kong independence as a “secessionist” act, one of the crimes outlawed under the new law. Two other pro-independence groups—the Hong Kong National Front and Studentlocalism—also announced plans to disband, HKFP reports.

Meanwhile, some of the city’s most outspoken pro-democratic figures—Joshua Wong, Nathan Law, Jeffrey Ngo, and Agnes Chow—announced that they would be withdrawing from party politics due to the law. Their party, Demosisto, had already been the subject of numerous legal entanglements related its advocacy for “self-determination” for Hong Kong.

On Twitter, Wong said that the passage of the new law “marks the end of Hong Kong that the world knew before.”

“If my voice will not be heard soon, I hope that the international community will continue to speak up for Hong Kong and step up concrete efforts to defend our last bit of freedom,” he said.”

On the international front, Hong Kong’s pro-Beijing Chief Executive Carrie Lam, who over the course of last year’s protests became the least popular leader in the city’s history, defended the controversial law’s passage before a meeting of the UN’s Human Rights Council this morning, accusing the law’s critics of hypocrisy.

“All those countries which have pointed their fingers at China have their own national security legislation in place,” she said, claiming without evidence that last year’s protests had been “fanned by external forces.”

The defense, however, did little to stave off criticism from overseas.

Japan, often reluctant to openly criticize other countries directly, called the passage of the law “regrettable,” the SCMP reports.

South Korea also added its voice to the chorus of concern, adding that it was “important for Hong Kong to continue developing amid stability while enjoying its high degree of autonomy.”

The U.S., meanwhile, already engaged in a heated diplomatic tit-for-tat with China over Hong Kong, announced in the hours just before the bill’s passage that Hong Kong’s preferential treatment under U.S. law was formally suspended, as were exports of defense equipment to the territory.

Referring to Beijing’s decision to “eviscerate Hong Kong’s freedoms,” Secretary of State Mike Pompeo said the U.S. “can no longer distinguish between the export of controlled items to Hong Kong or to mainland China.”

China, as it has with recent moves by the U.S. to sanction officials seen as “undermining” Hong Kong’s autonomy, vowed to retaliate in kind.

“Intimidating China will never work,” said Foreign Ministry spokesperson Zhao Lijian. “In response to the U.S. mistaken action, China will take necessary countermeasures to firmly defend our own national interests.”

The law is expected to come into effect on Wednesday, which also marks 23 years since the city’s return to China by the British. Under the handover agreement, Hong Kong was meant to enjoy 50 years of a “high degree of autonomy” under the “one country, two systems” framework.

But the July 1 protests that have historically accompanied the handover anniversary have been banned for Wednesday for the first time in almost two decades. Organizers of this year’s march, which they had hoped to use to protest the passage of the national security law, had previously vowed not to withdraw their calls for protesters to gather, despite the police ban.

Government broadcaster RTHK, meanwhile, cited unnamed sources as saying police would deploy at least 3,000 officers to maintain order. Netizens, for their part, called for the protests to go forward.

Despite China’s PR putsch to assuage Hong Kongers’ widespread fears over the new law, worries that the law will be used to snuff out the city’s special freedoms were unlikely to be calmed by an op-ed in the state-run tabloid the Global Times last night.

“The few die-hard radical forces in Hong Kong should be warned that the national security law could never be overthrown by mobilizing enough people to protest in the streets as they did with the extradition bill last year,” the op-ed crowed, referring to last year’s protests.

“They have betrayed Hong Kong and their country. They have made the wrong bet, and now it's their last chance to stop their wrongdoings before it's too late.”



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When Can We Kiss?

Dating in New York City is notoriously difficult. It’s not easy for anyone, but it’s especially challenging if you’re a woman who wants to date men, whom single women have outnumbered over the past two decades. The prevalence of dating apps has fostered a window-shopping-based economy: a hookup culture built on the act of swiping through a feed of endless options, prioritizing aesthetics without giving much initial thought to whether you’re actually compatible beyond that.

As if the dating scene wasn’t enough of a hellscape already, 2020 added another layer into this romantic Hunger Games: a global pandemic with New York City at the epicenter, forcing us into confinement inside our cramped, overpriced apartments and resulting in 21,941 deaths within the five boroughs at the time of this writing.

I’ve lived in New York City for six and a half years, which isn’t long enough to identify as “a New Yorker” but enough to call it my home. During that time, I’ve been in two serious relationships, the latter of which ended this past fall—meaning that I was finally feeling Ready to Get Back Out There by mid-February, at which point I had maybe three weeks to exchange a few messages and get a drink or two before COVID-19 rendered dating impossible. The NYC department of health released safer sex guidelines, but they’re largely geared toward people who already have an established partner or someone in their immediate circle they can hook up with. Moreover, they offer no guidance as to how to apply or broach these conversations around intimacy if you’re single.

Between the lack of official instruction and a dating pool consisting of men who either had no idea how to cope with the sudden onset of quarantine, didn’t understand the severity of the pandemic, or wanted to move in together before we’d even met, I was over it. I reconciled myself to the reality of stay-at-home life and an indefinite hiatus from dating and decided it was time to delete my profile. But before I did, a guy I’d matched with in late February and with whom I’d DMed a bit before a particularly busy work week prompted me to drop off, followed up again.

“I hope that eventually, it’ll no longer be irresponsible to go on dates with strangers, and when that day comes I’d still love to meet you,” he wrote. It was the only message I received that understood the gravity of the situation, and the prolonged period of dread we were about to enter as the case count began to climb exponentially.

“I think I’m gonna delete this because it feels pretty pointless now, but here’s my number for the post pandemic days,” I replied on March 18. “Or if you get truly bored in isolation, OR if things get so bleak that society resorts to having first dates over FaceTime. Is that weird? Do I care? Be well regardless!”

I have a crush on someone, send help

Flash forward a bit. That guy—let’s call him Paul to protect his privacy—did text me. We messaged for a month and had a surprisingly good first date via FaceTime in mid-April. He got laid off from his job the next day. We continued to talk, and instead of getting irritated or strategically delaying his reply after I would unintentionally drop off for days at a time, he was chill about it, often finding a way to turn my silence into a flirty repartee that kept the conversation going.

By the time the daily number of new cases and deaths began to slow, it occurred to me that I, someone who generally dislikes texting, had been texting with someone I’d never met for nearly four months. And I looked forward to seeing his name appear on my lock screen—I’d actually saved his name in my contacts, which I generally don’t do with Hinge matches. At that point, I’d seen one or two close friends for masked meet-ups and lived to tell the tale. So on May 28, I asked him out on a socially distant date: to-go cocktails from a bar by the Williamsburg waterfront and a stroll through Domino Park, masks and all. He agreed.

When the day finally came, the conditions were less than ideal: 85 degree weather with 500 percent humidity, resulting in inevitable mask sweat; the “pandemic” of it all; the looming 8 p.m. curfew de Blasio instituted during the week following the killing of George Floyd, because his priorities are out of touch and he needs to resign. Despite all this, I had a great time. All of the boxes on the checklist of whether I’d want to see this person again were enthusiastically checked in Sharpie.

And the feeling seemed to be mutual. At one point, we acknowledged we’d arrived at the part where we’d make out with one another. By the way, this is going really well. If we weren’t living in the twilight zone, I’d totally kiss you right now. We settled for hitting our respective hand sanitizers, high-fiving, and sanitizing our hands again. There was also a moment when, under our respective umbrellas in the pouring rain, I closed the six-foot gap between us to crush a spider that randomly appeared on his shirt with the bottom of my to-go drink—the closest I’d come to physical intimacy with a man in months.

So the date was great. Which meant I had a lot more things to think about.

Am I ever going to get laid, let alone kiss someone again, before I die? The experts weigh in

From the NYC department of health guidelines to the New York Times, there’s guidance out there as to what’s possible (and not) when it comes to physical intimacy during the pandemic. But none of it addresses what these conversations around intimacy should look like, or how to broach them in the first place.

So, I decided to find out for myself.

“This is a new situation, but people have been having conversations around STIs and HIV for a long time. It’s just that it’s going to look a little different now because we’re adding in this new virus, and the conversation has to happen earlier,” Julia Marcus, an infectious disease epidemiologist and assistant professor in the department of population medicine at Harvard Medical School, told VICE. “The ‘safe sex’ conversation has to happen before you have that innocent kiss on the first date—kissing is now high-risk in a way that it wasn’t before, and even just sitting close to somebody there’s a risk.” Based on the guidelines from the department of health, having actual sex is now safer than kissing.

“I think it’s probably most important to talk about what somebody has been doing for the past two weeks,” Marcus continued. The two-week period is when you’re most at risk of being contagious after being exposed to the virus, so evaluating it is crucial. “In general, what are their social distance practices? How are they approaching this whole pandemic? Who else are they living with, who are they exposed to?”

Zoë McLaren, an associate professor and health policy researcher in the School of Public Policy at the University of Maryland, said that both parties should be upfront about their respective dating habits—especially during the past two weeks. “If the other person has had multiple partners, how many partners have their partners had? We’re looking for the risk of transmission chains—that if your partner has been engaging in activities where they might have acquired COVID, that’s going to be more risky for you. The local prevalence rate also matters: where is your city or state on the curve? Because that influences the likelihood that any person will have picked up COVID.”

Both Marcus and McLaren pointed out that this won’t be a one-and-done discussion: the communication lines must remain open so that both parties can transparently discuss ongoing risk. Do they take public transportation every day? Do they work in an ER? Do they wear a mask when they go grocery shopping; did they wear a mask when they recently saw their friends? And, vice versa, what risks do you pose to them? Ultimately, it’s a multi-faceted question of quarantine compatibility.

McLaren cautioned that trust should be taken into consideration. “Part of meeting new people is that you don’t know whether you can trust them or not. Dating is tricky because everybody has an incentive to portray themselves as less risky and more trustworthy than maybe they are,” she explained. “There are incentives to misreport the truth, which adds another layer of risk. You’re evaluating what they’re actually telling you, but then you also have to think, ‘do I trust that this person is telling me the whole truth and nothing but the truth, or not?’”

All of this ladders up into a larger question around monogamy and physical exclusivity. “If everybody could kind of agree that we’re just going to do this one person at a time, the community level of risk would be much lower than if people were exploring multiple partners at a time, and going back and forth,” Marcus explained, noting that some countries, such as the Netherlands, have actually advised this. “That’s a fundamental infectious disease epidemiology concept, and we talk about it in the HIV world as concurrency. If you have concurrent partners that you’re switching back and forth between, the risk of transmission is much higher.”

In principle, this makes complete sense. But in practice, when considering modern dating culture, it feels easier said than done. Single people generally operate on the basis that the person they’re interested in is also seeing other people.

Until you’ve established that you only want to see each other—the “defining the relationship” conversation—both parties are free to do whatever and whoever they want. In a pre-COVID world, trying to establish physical exclusivity and having the discussion about concurrent partners before you’ve even kissed would strike me as a major red flag. It’s certainly not something I’d feel comfortable asking myself.

But we’re not in a pre-COVID world anymore. If you’re single and you choose to ignore the situation we’ve collectively found ourselves in and instead elect to operate as if we’re all still living in 2019, you’re jeopardizing the health of yourself and everyone around you. We’re in the midst of a pandemic with no vaccine or herd immunity in sight. The reality is that navigating intimacy at a basic level now involves dismantling everything you thought you knew about dating and buckling up for some complicated conversations—including ones that happen in the bedroom.

The exclusivity discussion goes hand-in-hand with a dialogue about risk reduction during sex, too. McLaren offered some logistical insight. “Most types of physical intimacy are going to carry some elevated risk of transmission because you’re close and breathing a lot of the same air. Physical intimacy often happens indoors where there’s not a lot of air ventilation, so the risk of transmission is high. Make sure your environment is one that’s going to reduce the spread; that the windows are open to ensure air ventilation, and wear masks as much as possible. Also, engaging in certain types of positions that don’t involve face-to-face breathing of the same air.”

It’s worth looking at the cadence of your dates, too. “The more time you spend with someone, the more likely they are to transmit it to you if they acquire it. You may want to consider having a mix of seeing them in person and seeing them on video chat, or talking on the phone, than you would otherwise. It’s the idea that, yes, you’re already being physically intimate, but you’re reducing your overall risk of passing the disease.

In a situation where you weren’t actually going to get very physical—just going for a walk, or having dinner together—you might consider doing that over the phone.” She added that eating and drinking, even from a distance, involve more risk than one might think. “They make a date riskier because you’re often taking your mask off. You might be coughing more.

Normally pre-gaming for a date is a bad sign, but the idea might be, ‘have a drink in your apartment and then go for a walk together where you don’t drink.’ It seems weird, but it’s an additional thing you can do so that you have your mask on the entire time you’re together. It’s about thinking of the different choices you can make at every stage that might lessen your risk of transmission.”

Moreover, if you or your partner develop symptoms or learn they were exposed to the virus—whether at work, home, or via someone else they know—you need to communicate that and take a two-week pause. When in doubt, it’s best to err on the safe side.

“Transparency is so important, but also, these are difficult conversations to have,” McLaren said. “If you have some sort of exposure that puts you at risk, it can be stigmatizing. In the regular world, it would be a red flag if someone were to say they didn’t want to see you for two weeks without providing a reason. But in the COVID world, it should be no excuse needed—you’re just pausing the physical [aspect] for two weeks. It shouldn’t be that you need to show a doctor’s note or exactly where the risk came from—and some of that might be abused in certain way [as a passive means of putting the relationship on ice, or even ghosting someone]—but people are more likely to come clean and just say ‘hey, there’s a risk here’ if they’re allowed to maintain some opacity.”

Similarly, in the event that you want to stop hooking up and see other people, you should quarantine for two weeks before starting the process over with someone else.

Both McLaren and Marcus stressed that it’s crucial to set the terms and expectations around physical intimacy up front. Both reiterated the point that the CDC has been completely silent on sex and dating for political reasons, which makes it harder for these conversations to be normalized.

“We need to recognize that people are going to be engaging in these types of activities. Fundamentally, talking about this can hopefully help save lives, and save people’s health,” McLaren said. “Yes, it’s awkward. But if you don’t have these conversations, you might be taking on a lot more risk than you realize, and might regret afterwards the actions you took. It’s just about getting as much information as you can to be able to put everything into perspective.”

So, I’d learned that all I had to do was ask Paul if he was kissing or even seeing anyone else outside his immediate circle, determine whether I could believe what he said, and then also commit to not kissing anyone else myself as long as he and I were doing stuff—or, if I did, I’d have to tell him I couldn’t see him for at least two weeks. All before we’d ever actually touched each other.

I found all of this a bit daunting, but reminded myself that the end goal will be much more fun than the uncomfortable conversations I needed to have in order to get there. Hopefully.

But wait, what happened with Paul?

I saw Paul in person again two and a half weeks after our first date. During that time, both of us tested negative for COVID-19 and its antibodies. The space also allowed me to digest my conversations with Marcus and McLaren, and hash out a plan for applying their guidance to my own life.

New York City entered Phase 2 of reopening on June 22. Paul and I originally planned to get to-go cocktails from a bar halfway between our respective apartments and then watch the sunset along the waterfront, but instead decided to post up at one of the socially-distant bistro tables on the street. After having been quarantined for 105 days and counting, the experience of sitting across from a date, drinking out of a glass instead of a to-go cup, was surreal. I didn’t eat anything because I wasn’t comfortable with the risk associated with consuming food in a public space, even though our server was wearing a mask and the other customers were six feet away.

When we went back to Paul’s place, I noticed his windows first: one in each room, all of them shut because the air conditioning was on. His apartment was extremely clean, which was reassuring.

Just because I had a framework for the initial conversation around hooking up didn’t mean I was any less uncomfortable having it. As the two drinks I’d consumed settled in my otherwise empty stomach, so did the sexual tension in the room. Steeling myself, I decided to rip the Band-Aid off.

I started by outlining the concept of concurrency and how it increases the risk of transmission. Paul and I had already discussed what we’d been up to for the past two weeks over the course of the evening, but up until that point I hadn’t asked him outright whether he’d gone on other socially-distant dates or hooked up with anyone else.

He said that he hadn’t. He was still on the apps, although he said his use of them had dwindled over the course of quarantine—no point in keeping up with it when the possibility of safely meeting people was slim.

I told him that if we were going to do this safely, we needed to establish physical exclusivity. “I don’t want to call it ‘monogamy’ because that word stresses me out,” I said. “And I don’t want either of us to feel trapped. But it’s one thing for us to see friends that we know and trust to take this seriously, and it’s another to see a random person from the apps that’s totally outside your circle. There’s more risk in that, to me, to my roommates—anyone we come into contact with—even if it’s just a to-go drink and nothing physical happens.”

I repeatedly stressed that this was not an attempt to entrap him in a relationship and make him my boyfriend, until he rolled his eyes at me and told me to stop worrying about that.

After talking through some specifics about our respective dating histories as they pertained to present interests (why not open the Ex File before you’ve slept with someone? It’s 2020 and we live in hell, after all), we agreed to the following terms: see each other exclusively; get tested for COVID on a more frequent basis; smash the pause button if one of us became symptomatic or learned of a possible exposure within our circles; be upfront about wanting to see other people, should we get to that point; be overly blunt and transparent with one another; and just figure it out as we go.

Paul was into it, but the overall conversation made both of our heads spin a bit. “It’s just a lot,” he said.

“I get that. When it feels like a lot,” I said, emboldened now that the discussion was in the rear view mirror, and the vodka in my system had morphed into something resembling butterflies, “try to think of it this way: I like you and I just want to get to know you better. And I’d like to get to know you better while also having a lot of great sex with you and climbing you like a tree. OK?”

I won’t get into what happened next because it’s simply none of your business. But I will say this: it was much more fun than killing errant spiders.

Meredith Balkus is the Associate Managing Editor, Digital at VICE. Follow her on Twitter.



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Arizona Cops Use Drone Surveillance to Arrest Protesters

Police in Tempe, Arizona used drone surveillance footage as justification for the arrest of three protesters this weekend. Police alleged that three people stopped traffic during a Black Lives Matter protest outside a Barnes & Noble bookstore.

Arizona activists organized a “chalk walk” over the weekend where protesters would gather to write on sidewalks in chalk to declare their support for the racial justice movement. Police took three people into custody, alleging that two had damaged a passing car and a third had prevented the police from making an arrest.

After the incident, protesters demanded police release footage of the alleged property damage and asked local businesses to release security footage of the area. Tempe PD was flying a drone above the protestors, captured footage of the alleged crime, and released that footage Monday on YouTube.

While many police departments have their own drones, there have been very few drone-aided arrests in the United States. Thus far, drones have largely been used for search-and-rescue operations by police and fire departments. The first known instances where a drone led to arrests both occurred in North Dakota. In 2012, Rodney Brossart was surveilled using a Department of Homeland Security Predator drone and then was raided by police. In 2014, North Dakota police used a smaller drone to track down four DUI suspects when they ran through a cornfield.

A spokesperson for the Tempe Police Department said they did not know what type of drone was being flown. The Maricopa County Sheriff's office has DJI Matrice 600 drones; we currently don't know which department flew these drones.

All over the country, protesters have been subject to aerial surveillance from drones, planes, and helicopters operated by federal, state, and local authorities.

“During the protest numerous protesters were observed blocking the roadway at McClintock Dr, as patrons attempted to exit the Tempe Marketplace,” the Tempe PD press release said. “Two of the protesters (a male and a female), began physically striking and throwing items at the victim’s vehicle causing noticeable damage.”

According to protesters, a grey truck advanced through the crosswalk while laying on its horn and attempted to run down a protester on the road at low speed. The drone footage released by the Tempe PD did not include sound.

The footage does not show the arrest. “We are still sorting through body cam footage right now,” a Tempe PD spokesperson told VICE over the phone. “It’s a ton of footage to go through. We’ll start releasing information throughout the week.”

Protesters captured footage of the arrest and shared it on Instagram. The protesters filmed several arrests in the Tempe area over the weekend. In the clips, cops arrive on the scene while protestors are drawing on the sidewalk in chalk, pull people out of the crowd, close ranks around the arrested person and—in one instance—pepper spray onlookers.



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Cops Took Photos ‘Re-Enacting’ the Chokehold of Elijah McClain

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Multiple police officers in Aurora, Colorado reportedly took photos “re-enacting” a chokehold placed on 23-year-old Black man Elijah McClain, who died several days being detained by the police in that city last year.

Aurora interim police chief Vanessa Wilson said in a statement on Monday night that she found out about the alleged incident last Thursday and immediately ordered an investigation, which was completed on Monday.

“This investigation will be publicly released in its entirety promptly upon its conclusion,” Wilson said. “This will include reports, photographic evidence obtained, officer’s names, and my final determination which can rise to the level of termination.”

Wilson has placed “all involved officers” on administrative leave.

The alleged existence of the photographs “re-enacting” the events of McClain’s arrest was first reported by CBS 4 in Denver. Three cops are under investigation, according to CBS 4.

The officers are allegedly “depicted in photographs near the site where Elijah McClain died,” which were reported to Aurora’s internal affairs unit by another police officer, according to Wilson. An Aurora police spokesperson declined to describe the photos to the Washington Post.

McClain was stopped by police on August 24, 2019, after they received reports of a man “wearing a ski mask and waving his arms at the caller,” according to a report from the Aurora Police Department released two days after the incident. The caller reportedly stressed that McClain was non-threatening, and McClain’s family has said he wore a ski mask because he was anemic.

But after McClain, who had committed no crime, “would not stop walking down the street from the police officer,” he was restrained in a carotid hold and held down by three officers, during which time he vomited multiple times and apologized.

Police called for paramedics, who injected McClain with ketamine, and he went into cardiac arrest multiple times on his way to the hospital, where he was declared brain dead on August 27 and taken off life support on August 30. Local prosecutors later declined to charge the officers—Nathan Woodyard, Jason Rosenblatt, and Randy Roedema—with any wrongdoing.

In the midst of the national uprising and protests against police brutality, McClain’s case has come back into the spotlight. Colorado passed a sweeping police reform law earlier this month which banned the use of chokeholds, and the city of Aurora recently banned police officers from using carotid holds. And, after more than 2.3 million people signed a petition calling for a “more in-depth investigation” and for the cops involved in McClain’s death to be taken off duty, Gov. Jared Polis announced last week that he would appoint a special prosecutor to investigate McClain’s death.

Woodyard, Roedema, and Rosenblatt have since been placed on “non-enforcement duties,” according to local reports. As of Tuesday, the Change.org petition was nearing 4 million signatures.

Cover: Demonstrators carry placards as they walk down Sable Boulevard during a rally and march over the death of 23-year-old Elijah McClain, Saturday, June 27, 2020, in Aurora, Colo. McClain died in late August 2019 after he was stopped while walking to his apartment by three Aurora Police Department officers. (AP Photo/David Zalubowski)



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Redacted Documents Show Public Library Wasn’t Ready for Porn Shoot

Earlier this year, a video appeared online of two people walking into the Ocean Park branch of the Santa Monica Public Library and having sex in the stacks.

At the time, the porn clip starring performer Ellie Eilish and her unidentified scene partner and cameraman (it was titled "Eilish Caught Fucking in a Crowded Public Library" on Pornhub, but has since been deleted by the uploader), stirred up outrage and disgust around the small community library. Redacted documents about the incident obtained by Motherboard show how the small library scrambled to respond to its sudden and unexpected virality.

"That is wrong, it is completely wrong," resident Felipe Herrador told NBC Los Angeles at the time. "It’s a public place, a library where there are children. How will the city or people allow that?"

In February, local news coverage by CBS Los Angeles reported that the 10-minute long porn video was filmed during the library's regular business hours and posted to several porn hosting sites in December, but has since been removed from most of those sites.

"This video is deeply disturbing," the city of Santa Monica told VICE in a statement in February. "Lewd acts in the public library are a violation of library rules and against the law. Staff did not have knowledge of the incident when it took place. The Santa Monica Police Department is investigating."

Motherboard filed a public records request with the city of Santa Monica, requesting emails, texts, police reports, and any other records related to the incident. The city recently sent back those documents, including a mostly-blank police report and heavily redacted email threads between librarians discussing the incident.

The Santa Monica police report, filed February 19, contains little beyond the date and it being a "priority 4" call, meaning there was a request made for police response, but mainly for investigative purposes. Motherboard has reached out to SMPD for updates on this case, but so far, there's been no new reports of Eilish or her co-star being apprehended.

Principal Librarian Susan Lamb wrote in an email to Assistant City Librarian Erica Cuyugan on February 16 that she'd heard on the KNX radio station that Santa Monica police were investigating reports of a woman exposing herself who purportedly exposed herself in front of John Muir Elementary, and having sex with a man inside the Ocean Park Library.

"Needless to say this caught my attention," Lamb wrote.

But the librarians were talking about this incident as early as January.

"Hi Karen, I got your message about a possible video circulating regarding a couple doing something in the Ocean park branch while the library was closed," Cuyugan wrote in another email on January 28. (The "something" that couple was doing, as it turned out? Fucking in the library, while it was open.)

Almost all of the rest of that email, and the reply from Ocean Park branch manager Karen Reitz outlining some of the buzz around the story on Reddit at the time, is redacted—as are the bulk of emails back and forth between library management. What isn't redacted is focused on discussing how to deal with the influx of comment requests from media they started to receive in February.

Even with as much of these emails redacted, seeing how a small library gets rocked by a couple deciding to shoot some porn in between its shelves is interesting. What little correspondence isn't obscured shows talk of a huddle, regrets about not sharing talking points with library staff sooner, and strategizing about how to respond to all the press attention.

As VICE noted in February, filming porn in public places can have serious consequences for the venues involved. The Milwaukee, Wisconsin gas station that was the unwilling setting of a viral porn clip risked losing its license. And the COVID-19 lockdown orders haven't stopped people from making messes with public sex: Last week, a mass of 500 people embarked on a night of drunken debauchery in Barbican, Plymouth in the UK, leaving behind "urine, excrement, used tampons, used condoms, broken glass, blood, [and] piles of rubbish," according to local reports.

If you're going to fuck in public, maybe don't do it in a library or a gas station's snack aisle or as a giant group during a pandemic. Follow the advice of people who have pulled it off safely, instead.



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Why Fentanyl Is About More Than Just the Opioid Crisis

Fentanyl didn’t kill George Floyd.

The toxicology report from Floyd’s autopsy revealed that when he stepped into a Minneapolis Cup Foods store on May 25 to buy a pack of cigarettes, he had the synthetic opioid in his system, along with caffeine, a metabolite of nicotine, and THC from marijuana. He also had coronavirus.

But none of those things caused his death.

Officially, according to the local medical examiner, Floyd died of “cardiopulmonary arrest,” meaning he stopped breathing and his heart stopped pumping blood. But as anyone who watched the video of what happened to Floyd could see for themselves, he died after a Minneapolis police officer knelt on his neck for nearly eight minutes. An independent autopsy commissioned by his family found he died of “asphyxiation due to neck and back compression.”

In the aftermath of Floyd’s death, the presence of fentanyl in his system has mostly been a footnote. Police often justify deaths by citing the presence of drugs, but this time the drugs didn’t matter; his killing was caught on camera for the world to see.

But while fentanyl didn’t kill George Floyd, the fact that it was in his system does matter. The powerful synthetic opioid is fueling a surge in overdose deaths across the United States. It’s tied up with everything happening today, from the pandemic to the civil rights protests.

We spent the last year at VICE News reporting a podcast called “Painkiller: America’s Fentanyl Crisis,” investigating where fentanyl comes from and why it’s causing so many overdose deaths. We finished production a few weeks before Floyd was killed, but our hope is that the show — the people we meet, the places we visit, the history we explore — will help shed some light on how we ended up here today, in 2020, with fentanyl, coronavirus, and rage against systemic racial oppression all colliding with one man’s tragic death.

The story of fentanyl and the opioid crisis is about intergenerational trauma, and a healthcare system that remains unequal and ill-equipped to treat addiction. It’s about drug laws that are steeped in racism. We saw evidence of that nearly everywhere we went, from the South Bronx to the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation. In Oakland, we met Denise Lopez, who works for HEPPAC, a harm reduction group that provides sterile syringes, the overdose-reversal drug naloxone, and other supplies to drug users.

Lopez grew up in the Bay Area during the crack epidemic of the late ’80s and early ’90s, but even back then, she recalls, heroin use affected the Black community. She saw it in her own family, and in her neighborhood in Oakland. Back then, drugs were considered an “inner city” problem. It’s portrayed differently now that the opioid epidemic affects white America.

“It's like a new trendy thing,” Lopez said. “White people are dying, so it's like real fancy now and everybody is coming to the rescue. We've been dying! We've been going to jail. We've been having our families broken.”

From 2015 to 2017, according to the CDC, nearly all racial and ethnic groups experienced significant increases in synthetic opioid death rates, but the increases were especially steep in George Floyd’s demographic. Among Black people ages 45-54 in large metro areas, fatal overdose rates have more than doubled, from 19 to nearly 42 deaths per 100,000 people.

For all the talk of embracing a kinder, gentler approach to the war on drugs that prioritizes treatment over punishment for addiction, little has changed with fentanyl. According to the U.S. Sentencing Commission, 77% of the people who face federal prosecution for fentanyl are Black or Hispanic. Nearly half of all those convicted for fentanyl in 2016 were mules or street-level sellers, at the bottom of the drug supply chain.

Racism has been ingrained in U.S. drug policy from the very beginning. The first anti-opioid laws targeted Chinese immigrants in San Francisco in 1875. Mass incarceration and many of the insidious police tactics that disproportionately affect people of color can be traced back to the crack era, including the type of no-knock raid that led to the police shooting death of Breonna Taylor in March. George Floyd himself had been incarcerated for low-level drug cases, and he was reportedly detained several times during police sweeps of public housing projects.

It’s possible that Floyd, who also had meth in his system, wasn’t even aware that he’d used fentanyl. It’s a painkiller that can be prescribed by doctors, but the illicit supply — produced by Mexican cartels or rogue Chinese chemists — is what’s behind the soaring overdose rates. It can be cheaply made with chemicals, it’s 50 times more powerful than heroin, and it can be easily blended with other drugs. It’s now ubiquitous, but low-level dealers can never be sure exactly what they are selling, leading to unpredictable and deadly doses.

Those who knew Floyd have said he moved to Minneapolis to seek a fresh start and get treatment for addiction. He found work as a security guard and truck driver and was trying to make the best of his life after years of struggling. We saw firsthand over the past year how stigma and racial disparities play out in the healthcare system. The bottom line is that it’s harder for people of color to get access to medication-assisted treatment. Some of the same systemic inequalities help explain why minority groups are disproportionately affected by COVID-19.

Fentanyl is often talked about with wild hyperbole — as a weapon of mass destruction capable of wiping out entire towns. There’s a myth that just touching it with your bare hands will cause an overdose. Most recently, the fentanyl crisis has been blamed on pharmaceutical companies giving kickbacks to doctors and the DEA not doing enough enforcement. That did happen — but it barely scratches the surface of how we ended up with this fentanyl crisis. It ignores the pain and racism at the root of the problem.

And it’s a problem that’s not going away. The CDC reports that fentanyl caused at least 35,000 fatal overdoses in the past year. The coronavirus has overshadowed other public health concerns, but the opioid epidemic is quietly worsening. Overdoses spiked over 17% across the U.S. in the weeks after stay-at-home orders took effect, according to one monitoring group. Addiction treatment centers have been overwhelmed with new patients.

Dr. Andrew Stolbach, a medical toxicologist at Johns Hopkins University, told me the level of fentanyl in Floyd’s system — a miniscule 11 nanograms per milliliter of blood — can be fatal, but users with a tolerance can handle far more. Stolbach said the fact that Floyd was functioning normally prior to his encounter with police makes it clear that fentanyl was not a factor in his death, but its presence combined with everything else is telling of where we are in society.

“Is there anybody more symbolic of the problems we're facing in 2020?” Stolbach asked. “This man is tragically killed by police. He also happens to have fentanyl onboard. He also happens to have coronavirus onboard. You know, these are three huge problems that we're facing right now all, unfortunately, wrapped up in one guy.”

Cover: Collage by Hunter French | Image via Getty.



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A Fight Broke Out Among Lawmakers in Taiwan’s Parliament. Again.

A brawl broke out between Taiwan’s ruling Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) and their main opposition, the Kuomintang (KMT), on Monday, June 29, inside the self-governing island’s legislature after the KMT erected barricades and occupied the chamber in a protest against government “tyranny.”

Nearly two dozen KMT lawmakers blocked entry to the chamber, known as the Legislative Yuan, accusing the government of trying to ram through legislation, and demanding the president drop the nomination of an ally to a high-level watchdog body called the Control Yuan.

DPP lawmakers, for their part, pulled down the barricades and barged into the area the KMT were occupying, prompting scuffles and shouting before a semblance of peace was ultimately restored.

But as extreme as such a conflict might appear to outsiders, fights inside Taiwan’s parliament aren’t a rare occurrence—in fact, they happen with some regularity.

According to a handy history of Taiwanese parliamentary brawls compiled by the BBC on the occasion of a particularly notable clash back in 2017, the Legislative Yuan saw substantial dust-ups on multiple occasions in 2004, during proceedings on transport links to the mainland in 2006, and in a session on the annual budget in 2007. In the last incident, at least one person was hospitalized.

One of the 2004 scuffles descended into a food fight, while the 2006 kerfuffle saw one parliamentarian snatch the bill in question and attempt to actually eat it, only for opposition members to try to force her to spit out the offending document by pulling her hair.

In 2017, meanwhile, the donnybrook escalated to the point that lawmakers were actually hurling chairs at each other and wrestling opponents to the ground in an effort to block an infrastructure spending bill. And in April 2018, another scuffle erupted over a draft bill to reform the military pension system.

Chen Fang-Yu, a PhD candidate at Michigan State University specializing in Asian comparative politics, further explained the reason of this week's fight to VICE News.

“If you look at the substantial context, most people are not very interested in the Control Yuan,” Chen said.

But, he added, “There is a new committee of human rights in the new Control Yuan. The committee will also investigate authoritarian legacies, just like the justice committee. KMT is not happy with it, and therefore they are opposing the nomination.”

Past fights, he noted, have proven to blow over quickly. In the case of the 2017 brawl, after the infrastructure bill was ultimately passed, the KMT’s opposition to it appeared to melt away, with many of the party’s local level officials applying for funds under the new law, Chen said.

As for Monday’s fight, Chen said that many people were more amused by it than anything.

“The KMT broke in, but people are making jokes, saying that you [KMT] are the legislators. So, they don’t necessarily have to break in, do they?” he said.

"There is also a photo on Facebook where the KMT lawmakers are eating together after the fight, which is quite funny,” Chen said.

Ultimately, he said that Taiwanese parliamentarians’ apparently quick tempers are a form of political theater.

“To be honest, I think the lawmakers pretend to fight. I think this is rather a political performance, and an appeal for both the DPP and KMT to show their voters and supporters that they are [making] a move within the legislature. Because if you look at the photos of the correspondents, they aren’t actually really fighting,” Chen said.

"This time, the KMT wants to oppose the Control Yuan nomination. They pretend to do it in an acting way. That is my explanation.”

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The US Is Going Back Into Lockdown to Avoid a July 4th Coronavirus Surge

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More than a month after they reopened, Arizona’s bars, gyms, movie theaters, and water parks were forced to close their doors again on Monday night as new coronavirus cases explode across the state.

The closure order, which is in effect for 30 days, marks a significant about-face for Arizona Gov. Doug Ducey, who lifted stay-at-home orders in mid-May, even earlier than White House guidelines suggested.

The state experienced a significant uptick in confirmed coronavirus infections over the last week, reporting more than 3,000 new infections in seven of the last ten days. On Monday Ducey, speaking to reporters, described the state’s coronavirus data as “brutal” — and warned the worst is yet to come.

"Our expectation is that our numbers next week will be worse," Ducey told reporters.

Governors across the country have begun reinforcing shutdown measures as the pandemic rages out of control in many parts of the U.S. with more than 30 states reporting rising infection rates.

Ahead of the July 4th holiday weekend, bars, beaches, and parks are being closed across the southern and western parts of the country.

Florida was one of the first states to reopen, and has seen a massive spike in coronavirus infections in the last week. Many Florida cities have shut down bars and restaurants once again, and beaches in the south of the state will be closed this weekend.

Similarly in Los Angeles County, which has become a new COVID-19 epicenter, beaches will be closed this weekend to prevent crowding, local authorities said. All public beaches, piers, car parks, bike paths, and beach access points will be shut off from midnight on July 3 until 5 a.m. PT on July 6.

In Tennessee, Gov. Bill Lee extended a state of emergency for two more months, until Aug. 29, with several other states including New Jersey and Michigan taking similar steps. The move allows governors to reimpose lockdown measures as they see fit.

Georgia Gov. Brian Kemp is expected to extend the state’s remaining pandemic restrictions for another two weeks, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported. The restrictions include social distancing measures for businesses and stay-at-home orders for the state’s most vulnerable residents.

While the number of cases in states like New York and New Jersey continues to decline, lawmakers there said they were concerned about the spikes in the rest of the country and were now reconsidering their plans to lift restrictions, including allowing indoor dining in restaurants, which was due to be allowed from Thursday.

Experts now see the surge in coronavirus cases as “very discouraging,” pointing out that bringing the pandemic under control would now be much more difficult than if numbers of cases nationally were declining.

READ: The U.S. just broke its coronavirus record for the second day in a row

“I think there was a lot of wishful thinking around the country that, ‘Hey, summer, everything is going to be fine, we’re over this,” Dr. Anne Schuchat, the principal deputy director at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, said in a live-streamed interview on Monday. “And we are not even beginning to be over this.”

The director-general of the World Health Organization, Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, said Monday that the “worst is yet to come” and that the coronavirus pandemic “is actually speeding up.”

There are similar concerns across the Atlantic, where the EU will reopen its borders on Wednesday.

The bloc announced on Tuesday morning that only travelers from a group of 14 “safe” countries would be allowed to enter. These include Canada, Australia, South Korea and possibly China, if Beijing makes a reciprocal agreement with Europe.

Because of the U.S.’s high infection rates, American travelers have been excluded.

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Cover: A sign on the door of the West Alabama Icehouse reads "Closed by the Governor", Monday, June 29, 2020, in Houston. Texas Gov. Greg Abbott shut down bars again and scaled back restaurant dining on Friday as cases climbed to record levels after the state embarked on one of America's fastest reopening. (AP Photo/David J. Phillip)



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11 People Talk About Confronting Racist Salary Discrimination at Work

As companies across the United States scramble to address racism in the workplace in light of anti-police violence, the stories employees are sharing are at odds with the pro-diversity initiatives employers are cobbling together. Black, brown, and Indigenous people are highlighting that performative "changes" expressed in well-intentioned but tone-deaf emails from CEOs, reading groups, and bias trainings aren't meaningful if non-white people remain underpaid compared to white colleagues.

On Twitter, #PublishingPaidMe and the creation of media salary spreadsheets revealed the stark disparities in pay between white writers and their Black or brown counterparts. This is one of many industries facing a public reckoning about racist income inequality: Pay disparities that overwhelmingly affect Black and brown people are, unfortunately, prevalent across many professions.

VICE spoke to 11 people about how pay inequality and related instances of workplace discrimination affected their professional development as they tried to move forward in their careers.

Answers have been edited for length and clarity. All names have been changed for professional and privacy reasons.

Nawra, 28, Washington, D.C.

I’m a Black non-binary person. There was a lot of pay inequality across a social justice nonprofit organization I worked for. We had an executive director making more than five times that of the lowest-paid staff. Some staff could barely pay their rent or cover childcare. Staff across the organization pushed for transparency by unionizing, and, ultimately, the executive team made pay adjustments to prevent us from moving forward with the union.

Though I knew—because other staff told me—that a white colleague with the same title and role as me was paid more than I was, it was confirmed when I got a letter that they were adjusting my pay to match my white colleague's. My direct manager told me the original pay disparity was because of tenure and my white colleague's overall work experience. That was hard to hear, because I had more experience in the actual field we were working in. Of course the white colleague had more overall work experience, I thought, They're older than me.

To make matters worse, I found out another colleague was offered a higher salary than I was when they were hired for the same role, with the same title. That colleague had both less overall work experience and less experience in our field. This colleague had lighter skin, and while I can't say that was why it happened, it did cross my mind that colorism played a role. When I lifted this all up, my manager promised to advocate better for me. But my manager didn't have enough power within the organization to do that in reality—and their higher-ups became defensive really fast.

I quit a few months after—not just because of the pay issue, though it was part of it. The organization just didn't live up to my values, or to the values it promised to live for our communities. It really took a toll on my mental health, hurt my ability to trust, and made me jaded and sad. I didn't have it in me to fight to make things better at the expense of my mental health—not within that environment, at least.

I don't trust nonprofit organizations to really serve the communities they claim to anymore. Mission statements are often empty promises, while capitalism and white supremacy are what are truly embodied by so many of these orgs.

All that said: I truly, truly believe we can do better. We can change things! We can pay people equitably. We can even make healthcare, housing, education and so on free. so there's not this toxic competition over resources and a false sense of scarcity.

Liz, 33, Seattle, WA

I'm a Black woman. I worked in human resources at a video game development company. In my capacity there, I was involved in hiring a peer, a white guy. My manager asked me to prepare an offer letter for him at a $90,000 annual salary, compared to the $65,000 annually I was being paid for the same job. I didn't raise concerns at the time, but my manager acknowledged that we were hiring him at the top of the range because he was certain that he'd be a rockstar. Rather than seeing this as discriminatory, I blamed myself for not negotiating for higher pay when I accepted my offer.

When this guy started, it was evident that he was not nearly as capable as he'd represented. Our manager frequently asked me to take on significant parts of his workload, and I spent hours correcting his work and training him on pretty basic aspects of the job. He couldn't be trusted to follow through on simple tasks, and at one point our manager asked me to record how many hours the guy actually spent working because there was little evidence that he was doing anything.

After a year of this, my boss told me during a performance review that I wouldn't be getting a promotion or pay raise that cycle. I asked for some feedback, and one of the things he said was that I lacked "polish.” When I asked what that meant, he said, "You know, your hair and stuff.” At that time, I had just stopped chemically relaxing my hair and only wore it natural or in protective styles.

And, yes—the guy got to keep his job and his $90,000 salary through all of this.

I started polishing up my resume and landed a new job within six months of that conversation. The new job was the very first job interview I'd gone to wearing my natural hair. I figured that if I wasn't "polished" enough to work there, then they could just reject me off the bat. Luckily, they hired me—and for $30k more than the old job.

Fatima, 35, New York City, NY

I am a multi-racial woman. I was a news anchor for a major sports media company where employees shared computers. One day, I was searching for a file on the hard drive and there was a spreadsheet titled "April Budget." Journalists are curious by nature, so I opened it up and found that it contained all our salary breakdowns. I was the lowest-paid anchor by over $10,000, despite having as much experience as the highest-paid white male anchor. I didn't tell anyone at work about this because I was embarrassed. Only recently have I felt comfortable talking about it after all these stories have come out.

I brought it up during my annual review. My executive producer at the time told me that, because of headcount, it was going to be difficult to find the additional money, but that there would be a review of the budgets and he would try to "cobble something together." That never happened. That executive producer was laid off. When I met the new manager, I was on the verge of quitting and I explained why. Twenty-four hours later, I got the raise.

There is this small voice in the heads of minorities that tells you just to be grateful for the opportunity. This mentality led me to believe that if I worked harder I would be compensated for it—except a much more junior white anchor who was eventually fired for gross incompetence was making more money than I was. I needed that proof to convince myself that I was being unfairly paid.

Roxana, late 20s, D.C. area

I worked at a reproductive choice nonprofit doing organizing work. I found out about seven or eight months into my employment that I was being paid a humiliating amount less than a white woman coworker. Employees were strongly discouraged from speaking to each other at this organization. I found that really weird, and so did my co-workers, but we worked remotely and did not know one another except for our interactions online. I slowly started getting involved in basic, but private, conversations with them that evolved into Google Hangouts. One day, over a Hangout, I decided to ask how much we all were being paid, because I was told by my boss upon hire that all full-time workers were going to be paid the same. In the Hangouts conversation, I found out that my white colleague—who held a very similar title with a very similar job role, one that required us to work together constantly—was being paid about $15,000 more than me. I was floored. I literally threw up. I sobbed myself to sleep that night, and many that followed.

After finding out the discrepancy, my co-workers and I tried to have a group meeting about it but my bosses refused and immediately involved attorneys. Every staffer at the time went on strike in solidarity for weeks before resigning. I signed an NDA in exchange for a small amount of severance. I am disabled and have negative generational wealth. I had no choice but to sign, and my boss knew that. The trauma and betrayal that I experienced there shut me out from what I truly believed was my dream career and calling.

Since then, I worked at an environmental nonprofit, an electoral campaign, and doing direct abortion care. Then, I started law school to pivot away from the reproductive choice nonprofit space. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to pivot away from the nonprofit space altogether because of its presentation as a lesser evil under capitalism, but I want to because it's unsafe for women of color.

Mara S., 30, Bay Area, CA

I’m an Asian-American woman. I worked as a content editor in the health and entertainment media among an editorial team of about 80 people.

We were sitting in the common area during lunch when a new hire just asked, transparently, what we were all making. It wasn't a conversation we’d had recently, given how we were previously pretty open about salary brackets at the company, but over the last two years the company had also expanded exponentially. So we answered, in duck-duck-goose order, until a different new white editor, who had zero years of experience, spilled that they made up to $8,000 more than some editors.

The entire group was livid, and I feel bad for that coworker who spilled because they didn't know. At the time, I didn't have the lowest-lowest salary of the group, but I definitely have had to help that editor with a beginner's level of editorial knowledge. Essentially, on a legacy-editor to new-editor basis, the discrepancies made no sense. I'm not even sure it was intentional, but that's what made us so angry: that one position had so much more money thrown at it without the consideration of existing employees. It made us feel extremely undervalued.

A few of us didn't feel like we were able to say anything. Some of us our salaries weren't too far off (like, about $1,000–$2,000 difference), while others had, like, $8,000–$10,000 discrepancy. Chatting with some other colleagues, we ended up rationalizing that new hires would naturally get paid more. Most of us thought the best way to get raises was to find new jobs— we'd also had salary reports done in the past, but they always told us that we're paid “market.” We just didn't have a lot of faith in the company.

This lack of faith was exacerbated when one of the braver editors, who had 10+ years of experience to this other co-workers' zero, spoke up to management, which led to a lot of internal conversations that dragged on for months. At one point, a white HR rep—on a fucking PowerPoint slide—told folks not to talk about salary. That rep was eventually let go, but not before my co-worker who brought up the discrepancy left.

Personally, I didn't want to leave, because I've seen media salaries. We didn't have it great, but we also didn't have it "Condé Nast" bad. Still, I got progressively irritated, especially when I had to help the person who was paid more than me do their job. I didn't feel like waiting for a raise, so I went ham with internal applications. Funnily enough, they made me do the work associated with the promotion I had applied for for three months before I got the title and raise. By the time I did officially get the job, it just felt like back pay. Three months later I wanted another raise.

This time, I mentioned that I was interviewing at other companies and outlined their salary ranges, despite not having an actual job offer. I didn't say I had a job offer, but I definitely implied I was going to leave. By this point, I'd been doing the work all by myself again, and so I was pretty upfront about not only needing a raise, but also an assistant. I'm pretty sure they were scared I'd leave, so by the next review cycle, I got an $11,000 raise and a title change. By the end of the year, I totaled a $25,000 raise.

It feels important to add that none of this was "overnight," but basically four years worth of work. I spent three years building a very trusted and strong relationship with my manager and had proven myself by carrying a team for at least two years before I spoke up. I also literally worked my ass off. By the end of 2019, I was so burnt out I dissociated for six months and lost a really important relationship. In my head, I thought I was investing in the financial security of our future. But by then, I was so completely disconnected from my emotions that I'd forgotten the concept of emotional intimacy. I only stopped dissociating when he broke up with me and my manager told me to take time off.

Some days, I look back and I'm not sure it was worth it, but I'm glad at least I didn't have to trample on anyone to get raises. It was a very solitary experience in that my coworkers were only ever happy for me without ever being successful in the same way. Looking back, I was doing the #girlboss shit: defining success on my terms and narrow-mindedly thinking other people should be able to do the same. Today burning out to succeed is never something I could comfortably advise. And I can't help but think about whether or not my experience set the expectation with management that they can just wait for people to ask for fairer pay, rather than give it to those who deserve it without those employees having to ask.

Having two extremely negative negotiating experiences helped me take no bullshit. With managers at previous teams or companies, I was either gaslit, or belittled because of my age. Both those experiences definitely angered me into action. They made me realize that if management is willing to lie to me, I had no reason to be honest or considerate of management's feelings. I could just ask for money in terms of business and not disclose personal reasons for why.

M. Pearson, 30, Philadelphia, PA

I am a Black genderqueer person. I found out about the pay disparity at my previous job at a market research company three months ago from a white male colleague who worked with me at the company where the disparity occurred.

I had recently quit my prior job and come to a new company that paid me double my previous salary, in part because this colleague referred me. He is a tall, younger (~26 years old) white man, whom I trained. The two of us were complaining about working at the company because the environment was hostile and the boss/owner was actively cruel to those around him when my colleague mentioned how little he was paid relative to our new jobs. Then, he told me what he had made previously—$54,000—which was over $2,000 more than I was making after working for the firm for over three years. He also alerted me that the young white woman, who I also trained, who was hired with him, was hired at $52,000, which was almost a thousand dollars more than I was making as her supervisor.

Note: I have a master’s degree, nearly a decade’s worth of experience in research, and multiple research publications, compared to his two years of low-level work at a market research firm straight out of college. I had tried multiple times to raise the issue of higher pay with leaders at my firm, only to be told “it wasn’t about the money” and that I “should be thankful for gaining such valuable experience.”

Until I left, I had no idea that I was being paid so little—talking about salaries was quietly discouraged culturally, especially when the CEO would constantly affirm that salaries were not important. I have not pursued action, since I'd left the role when I discovered this, and I work in a right-to-work state (right-to-work states have laws which prohibit union security agreements, or agreements between employers and labor unions). I’m not sure what action I could have taken, to be honest.

Once my white colleague told me about our salary discrepancies, it completely altered my perspective about my work experience. It was a very hostile environment and deeply unsupportive, but I had internalized much of the negative experiences I had as the result of some failing in myself, despite being responsible for millions of dollars’ worth of work. I was afraid to talk about issues in the workplace because the boss is actively hostile to any negative feedback and he is petty and vindictive when confronted. I was screamed at and made to cry on multiple occasions by my CEO. Managers are clearly frightened of him, and work to shift blame for any and all mistakes or issues onto less senior employees to shield themselves from his wrath.

I broached a raise last spring, using a job offer I received as reasoning for why I deserved it, only to be systematically punished for months following for daring to bring it up. I had my projects taken from me and then had my raise request thrown in my face for months afterwards as a sign that I had lost investment in my work after it was denied. If I were still working there, I would not feel safe bringing this issue up with my employer. I would be lying if I said I am not afraid he won’t seek retaliation if I were to speak publicly on these issues.

Kanha Engels , 23, Toronto, Canada

I am an Indian trans femme person. I worked for a tech company in Toronto. I was the operations manager working alongside the service manager and assisting the CEO of the company.

It was an incredibly toxic and abusive workplace. The service manager—who started as my co-worker—demanded to be made my superior and insisted that I report to them.

During a week in which that co-worker was away because of the flu, I was given the responsibility of managing our expenses and entering them into QuickBooks. I also had the responsibility of approving and entering employee expenses, so while I was entering their expenses into the system, I saw how much they were paid.

I saw that the co-worker’s salary was 1.25 times what I was given when I signed. I was given a wage below asking, which I took because I wanted the management experience on my resume. Our experience was about the same in our respective fields, and given our fields, I should’ve been making more.

The main difference between us was that they were white, and they were of the same ethnicity as the CEO and the Vice President of the company.

The company didn’t have an HR department—which should’ve been a red flag—so I raised their abusive behavior and the pay inequity to the CEO. I was shut down immediately. I was told that I should be glad I was given the opportunity. It wasn't even a job I wanted! They called me in after I turned down a position with them as the exec assistant to the CEO a year and a half before. They said that, maybe if I wasn’t on my phone all day, like the rest of my generation, I would be deserving of a raise. (When I started, I was told by the CEO it was OK to have your phone out; I like to listen to podcasts when I do reports.) All of our other staff also frequently used their phones during work hours—it’s a tech company, after all. Half of the dudes played table tennis all day.

I swallowed my pride for about a week before the abusive coworker berated me in front of the entire company staff. It all sort of blew up one day over our company’s phone and internet bill. I entered the bill as she’d taught me to, and with all the breakdowns on the paperwork. I double checked the math. It turned out that the bill had an outstanding balance on it. I didn’t factor in the taxes for that outstanding amount because we weren’t charged for it on the bill. She called me out in front of everyone and said I was incompetent and that before I came along she had no time for a vacation or to even take lunch breaks but she’d rather go back to that than share an office with me.

I left the company after that. This all happened within the first month and half I worked there.

Elif, 26, Baltimore, MD

I am a mixed, Muslim immigrant from Turkey. I was working for an environmental nonprofit organization in Washington, D.C. when I found out that I was paid less than a white colleague of similar age. We had applied for the same position of an administrative assistant, but I was given a higher position in marketing instead, considering my background operating a media platform for years. Despite her having a more junior position and less experience than I did, she was paid more. This position was also salaried, so I was not paid overtime, even though I had to stay at work longer than she did.

I only knew this because she’s now my best friend and she disclosed it within the year. I was shocked. On top of that, I had soon after asked them if they could sponsor my work visa since my student visa/OPT (Optional Practical Training, for one year after graduation) was going to expire in less than a year. They told me they would sponsor my work visa only if I paid for all of the application and lawyer fees, which can be up to $10,000. It would have been illegal for them, according to my lawyer then, to ask me to pay for it because they should be paying for it. I’m not sure if I would have been breaking the law in that case as well, but I didn’t end up going through with it.

I did not raise my discomfort around the discrepancy. I was scared that it would have impacted the company's willingness to sponsor me. I stuck to the lower pay the whole time. I ended up quitting a few months afterward, but only because I started working on my book with Prestel/Penguin Random House and had to move to West Texas.

Many people in my family and friends have been working under the table and, as a result, get taken advantage of. They know that we either have no or inadequate protection. This is a financial crisis in more ways than one; it’s not that we are just underpaid, but as a result, we cannot afford lawyers to pay for protection, visas, and higher pay.

It reiterated to me that, even when I am documented, I still cannot compare to my colleagues who are white citizens. Even before I step foot into the office for an interview, my worth—in skill and deserved pay—is judged upon my foreign name compared to a white colleague who has a familiar name. And lastly that such an experience that undervalued me, in pay and skill, is not an isolated event but one that carries itself over into future jobs, as it sets precedent in the monetary value of my skills. I did not deserve to be paid less, but systematically was set up to be undervalued as the capitalist and racist systems reflect themselves into organizations like mine.

Sundiata, 26, East Coast

I'm a non-binary Black person. I was working in politics—specifically, digital organizing—when I realized a white colleague who started after me and got promoted at the same time I did (to the same level) was making 10 percent more than me. I can say with confidence that I was one of the only people who went into negotiations with a plan for my team and for the org, so much so that I received praise for coming to the table prepared.

I found out when we were catching up at a conference. The colleague had the sense to look ashamed and said they felt bad because their director had advocated fiercely for their salary, but I couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t use this guilt to advocate for other people. In their position, I have, and I continue to, advocate for higher pay and more equity for my teammates. I was obviously disappointed when I found out, because I went into nearly $7,000 of personal debt to relocate and accept this job; with this debt, I was barely making ends meet. It took me two years to finally pay everyone back, including my dad, who borrowed from his credit card to help me.

After I found out, I plotted to have another conversation about my role and my salary for the next four months. For context, my organization had scheduled biannual raises, and I had just received a promotion a few months prior. But I was exhausted from being cheated out of fair compensation while watching people who did the same amount of work get paid more. After I put my plan in place, I had a conversation with my director to negotiate—once again—and didn’t mention that I knew a team member made more than me. I relied only on what I had already done for the organization, and what I would continue to do when compensated fairly. The conversation began a process to clarify pay bands and role responsibilities across our department, which were already a stated priority, but which hadn’t been a transparent process.

It’s incredibly painful to see and know about the disparate pay. Any organization or company that is “committed” to combating anti-Blackness must begin with a full audit of how they have harmed their Black employees. Full acknowledgment of this harm, coupled with accountability for addressing it, is the only way forward.

Monique, 26, Bronx, NY

The nonprofit I worked for specialized in helping formerly incarcerated people transition back into society via college application help, inside-prison college credits, policy work, internships, etc.

I found out I was being paid less than a white colleague about six to eight months in as a program associate. I worked on different areas of the job and was tasked to manage the inside-prison program on my own, due to the constant amount of staff turnover from a toxic work culture and dictator-like leadership. I began fighting for a title change and raise given that I had taken over coordinator/director responsibilities for the program.

One day, I was having casual "girl talk" in the office. My white female colleague (who had been hired one month after me with the same level of credentials) was speaking about how she needs a raise to come from her annual review. We were all in agreement because we felt the same. Some of my other Black colleagues who had been there a little longer than I had and myself had already spoken about the lack of pay given the work. She went on to say, “Yeah, $42,000 isn't enough for a program associate.” I sat there in awe, locking eyes with a Black colleague: We were hired at $38,000, and we both had more responsibility than the white colleague.

I used the moment to craft a proposal for a title change and raise 10 months in—I was not going to wait for my annual. I was overwhelmed with work, pulling in 70 hours a week with no overtime, and had the biggest workload of anyone in the office. I met with my supervisor before the director, explained that I was aware others were being paid more, and that I deserved a raise and a joint meeting with the director. My supervisor told me if I said that I knew others got paid more, the conversation will be DOA.

I felt discouraged, but still decided to ask and go ahead with the meeting. I was told that there was no money they could give me because that was the starting rate for everyone at that position. I left the meeting defeated. I attempted to ask for my raise and title change at my annual, and I was put on a “maybe” time trial period. I was given even more responsibility with the understanding that a title change and raise came with my ability to complete more tasks. I was younger and motivated and took on the challenge because I was deeply committed to the work and mission. Shortly after, the same white colleague had their review and got offered a coordinator position with a raise. I was more than crushed—not just by the lack of respect, but because it was made to seem that some people were performing better while I had to beg and fight for the title and raise. I did get both three months later, but the pay was $10,000 less than any other coordinator in the office.

I ended up quitting about two years in because the microaggressions became too much considering I was the person who worked the most and got paid the least. My mentors around me helped me see the emotional and physical abuse I was enduring.

I was able to confirm my white female colleague was getting more than any other associate because someone left a salary data sheet in the printer one day with every single person’s pay. That was also the day I realized that almost every person of color who worked there was paid drastically less than anyone white. It was an abusive place to work. Everyone was constantly on their toes because of scare tactics employed against us, including people getting fired without any notice. People of color were fired at higher rates than any other group. Over 20 staff were fired or "left" during my time there and it was a small office. Staff were forced to say they left for personal reasons by leadership to prevent negative work culture impact. More than half of the staff who worked during my time there barely lasted a year and more than half were people of color.

I remember the day one of our few formerly incarcerated staff members was fired the day before Thanksgiving break with no notice. It was after he called out a long-time director with a history of microaggressions and blatant racism. He was let go midday and wasn't even allowed to say bye. We all received an email stating he had chosen to leave. I later learned from someone else that he was indeed fired. This was rich, considering the organization claims to hire formerly incarcerated people, but, during my time there, we had maybe a total of five staff members who had prior involvement, and two of them were Black men who were both fired.

J., 26, Brooklyn, NY

I’m a multiracial woman working in media. I work for a fairly large digital publisher that you’ve likely browsed once or twice.

My white coworker told me what he was making in confidence. At the time, I was making $78,000 and he was making $96,000. While these salaries seem fairly substantial for our age and industry, our paychecks were not nearly indicative of the multi-millions of dollars we were procuring for the business at that time. Despite him making nearly $20,000 more than me with the same level of experience, he was vocally displeased with his salary and actively negotiating for higher. He left for another job and higher salary, even after being offered a $10,000 raise.

I had planned to raise concerns in the next reviews cycle (which was days away). They eventually offered me the salary they had offered him to prevent additional attrition. I tried for more, but didn’t have much success.

I have strong female mentors who I look up to and consult in many of my career decisions. I’m equally as thankful for the honesty and persistence of my white male co-worker who never failed to remind me that he made more than me “for doing less.” It’s always helpful to have trusted allies at work who are transparent and share a common goal of not being or working alongside those who are underpaid.

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