Eminent Americans

Stella Tsantekidou begins her essay "I too am an unfuckable hate nerd" with the kind of inside-outside two-step that characterizes much of the writing on The Human Carbohydrate, her very compelling Substack newsletter. She's at a party in London talking to another writer. The topic is a recent piece they've both read on the phenomenon of the "unfuckable hate nerd," that very 21st century type who populates the nether regions of the internet, marinating in resentment and fury and impotence, taking out his unquenchable hate on the women of the world, particularly those with the gall to think they have opinions worth considering. Stella writes:

My issue with that article is that it misses how many women feel like unfuckable hate nerds too. [The other writer] looked at me unconvinced, as people often do when I try to explain to them my affinity for incels and other basement dwelling online weirdos. Coming out of my mouth it sounds like I am fishing for compliments, trying to get my audience to state the obvious. How could I be an unfuckable hate nerd?

Then the sexy hammer drops. A photo of Stella:

She's hot, in other words. How could this very attractive, apparently well connected woman feel a connection to these terrible, and terribly unattractive, men? The answer, as in much of Stella's writing, is that she's been on both sides of the glass. Born and raised in a small city in Greece, in unremarkable middle class circumstances, she moved to London for college with no connections and no organic insight into the hierarchies and mores that structured British society. Now she's part of the elite political class in the UK, moving back and forth between jobs in government and the advocacy world, with a regular gig doing TV political commentary on the side.In 2024, she's quite good looking and socially successful. As a kid, though, she was a bona fide reject, greasy and awkward and the victim of rather relentless bullying by her classmates. And not weak-ass American-style bullying, but hardcore second world haven't gotten the memo that we don't do that kind of thing anymore bullying. "When I say I was bullied," she writes, "I mean that for six years, on a daily basis, I was reminded that if my peers could exterminate me like a cockroach cornered with an aerosol, they would. ... The boys would push me down the stairs, throw my rucksack out the window, spit on me, call me names no self-respecting heterosexual teenage girl could ever bear to hear directed at her from the lips of boys without contemplating suicide or at least complete voluntary social isolation. ... the only attention I was receiving from boys was to be reminded of how repulsive they all found me. They regularly wondered out loud why I didn’t kill myself."

Stella knows what it's like, in other words, to stew with hate for both oneself and others, to wish the worst things in the world upon others who seem to have more fortune while also desperately seeking and wanting their approval and affection. She knows what it feels like to feel ugly and powerless. "In my heart," she writes, "there is always an unfuckable hate nerd. This is the part of me that takes intense, nostalgic pleasure every time I sense as much as an atom of bullying energy coming my way. It feeds my inner unfuckable hate nerd who is still struggling to accept her new position on the food chain."The final turn in her essay is back toward the fact of her current life in possession of young female attractiveness and what she can see, in no small part thank to the benefit of her early struggles, are its dangers and the relatively short half life of its power. Stells and I talk about these issues; the broad arc of her academic and professional journey from Greece to the U.K. to the U.S. (where she worked on the 2016 Bernie Sanders campaign) and back to the U.K.; reactionary feminism; and the complex legacy of her parents, among many other things. It's a great conversation.

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Our text for today’s episode is “John Thompson, b. 1941,” a short eulogy essay by the writer Kiese Laymon in which he reflects on the special affection that not just he but also his “aunts, mother and grandmother” felt for Thompson and his Georgetown basketball team when Laymon was growing up. The coach was more than just a winning coach; he was an avatar of Black America, and a symbol of Black excellence and paternal strength and solidity. Laymon writes:

From a distance, I saw Thompson as representative, our imaginary coach who was once a decorated player, who backed up Bill Russell for the champion Boston Celtics. That decorated player who backed up Bill Russell was once a scared Black child, like every Black child I’d met in the universe, just longing to have a fair shot at gracefully winning and graciously losing.

…Thompson’s national championship and his subsequent loss in 1985 made real for me the representative possibilities and consequences of publicly winning and losing in America while Black. Though Thompson was our imaginary coach, in this eerie way we were his real team. If Thompson lost, and Georgetown lost, it felt as if my race lost. Even at 9 I knew there should have been more Black coaches in all the sports I watched since nearly all the best players were Black. I knew that there was nothing as joyful as publicly beating white Americans in anything simply because white Americans were allowed to play, cheat, coach, referee, own and win whether they actually showed up or not.

My guests on the show today are Laymon himself, professor of English and creative writing at Rice University and author of, among other books, the essay collection  How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America, the novel Long Division, and the memoir Heavy; and Jason Sokol, professor at history the university of New Hampshire and author of, among other books, There Goes My Everything: White Southerners in the Age of Civil Rights and The Heavens Might Crack The Death and Legacy of Martin Luther King Jr.

Two personal notes about this episode: Jason is my oldest friend on the planet. We went to pre-school together and have been close friends since. And Jason and Kiese were friends at Oberlin College, where they played basketball together and talked ideas, history, race, and the rest. As you’ll hear on the episode, they haven’t spoken since they graduated, so this is a bit of a reunion.

The audio clip at the beginning is from the song “Georgetown Press,” by Wale.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Reading List

* The Lure of Divorce, by Emily Gould

* Goulded Cages, by Phoebe Maltz Bovy

* The Sad Young Literary Man Is Now a Middle-Aged Dad, by Elizabeth Weil

* Can polyamory save this marriage? by Phoebe Maltz Bovy

My guest on today’s episode, which is part of my ongoing double secret probationary special series on the state of the discourse late winter/early spring 2024, is New York born, Toronto-based writer Phoebe Maltz Bovy.

I reached out to Phoebe after reading her short post on Substack about the recent big, long, splashy essay by Emily Gould about Gould’s descent into bipolar-induced mania, her separation from her husband (writer Keith Gessen), their eventual hard-won reconciliation, and the complex ways in which her feminist analyses of the problems in their marriage were much less useful and clarifying than they initially seemed.

Phoebe writes:

Gould … steeps herself in the men-are-bastards literature of the past years/decades, and concludes, “This was not quite the way I felt.”

I cannot emphasize enough, having read many such items for researching-straight-women purposes, what a tremendous break this is from business as usual. Because if you’re a 40ish straight or straightish woman, you’re meant to feel one thing.

Gould tries to funnel her angst-and-then-some into the expected feminist narrative, but is stymied by her realizations that she’s done a lot of bad things, and that her husband, too, is a person. She looks at the facts on the ground and isn’t able to blame the patriarchy for her own messy blend of mental illness and bad choices.

Phoebe and I talk about Gould and Gessen, the unglamorous realities of the writing life, how much cultural capital is worth compared to actual capital, and Phoebe’s review of the recent polyamory memoir by Molly Roden Winter.

Phoebe Maltz Bovy is the author of The Perils of “Privilege” (2017). She is a senior editor at the Canadian Jewish News, a co-host of the Feminine Chaos podcast, author of the Substack newsletter Close-reading the Reruns, columnist for the Globe and Mail, and writer for various other publications of note.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Reading List:

* “When Liberalism Was at Its Best,” Parts 1 (Isaiah Berlin), 2 (Lionel Trilling), and 3 (Reinhold Niebuhr), by Damon Linker.

* “Philosophy and the Far Right”—Part 1 and Part 2

* “Conservatism and Skepticism”—Part 1 and Part 2

My guest on the show today is Damon Linker, perhaps the nation's most enthusiastic, unapologetic center leftist (he and Matt Yglesias occasionally punch it out for the title in an underground fight club built in the tunnels under the charred timbers of the former headquarters of the New Republic).

Damon is a senior lecturer in political science at the University of Pennsylvania, writes the Notes from the Middle Ground newsletters on Substack, is a senior fellow with the Open Society Project at the Niskanen Center, and is the author of two books, The Theocons: Secular America Under Siege and The Religious Test: Why We Must Question the Beliefs of Our Leaders.

I asked Damon on the show to discuss his recent series of essays on three of the seminal thinkers of post-war liberalism, the philosopher Isaiah Berlin, the literary critic Lionel Trilling, and the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. We also got into his conflicted feelings about the philosopher Leo Strauss and the movement—Straussianism—that he birthed.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Reading list:

* Windex Ain’t Scared: Here’s Our Statement on Israel/Palestine, by Jeff Maurer

* Hijackers Surprised To Find Selves In Hell, by The Onion

* Not Knowing What Else To Do, Woman Bakes American-Flag Cake, by The Onion

* American Life Turns Into Bad Jerry Bruckheimer Movie, by The Onion

My guests on the podcast today are Jeff Maurer, author of “Windex Ain’t Scared,” and my brother Mark Oppenheimer, who selected the text to be the subject of this installment of my special series on the state of the discourse.

Jeff Maurer served honorably in the federal government for eight years until his standup comedy career led him to being hired as a writer on John Oliver's HBO show, Last Week Tonight, where Jeff worked for six years, and he is now the author of the Substack newsletter, I Might Be Wrong, which is hilarious and smart.

Mark is a writer and podcaster based in New Haven, Connecticut, author of many books, most recently Squirrel Hill, The Tree of Life Synagogue Shooting and The Soul of a Neighborhood, also brilliant and hilarious. He's hard at work on a biography of Judy Blume; is the host of The Syllabus, a podcast about campus politics; and Substacks at Oppenheimer.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Reading List:

* The zeitgeist is changing. A strange, romantic backlash to the tech era looms, by Ross Barkan

* Notes Toward a New Romanticism, by Ted Gioia

* The Invisible College: Modern British Literature, by John Pistelli

* The Three Segments of American Culture, by Ross Barkan

* Major Arcana: Preface, by John Pistelli

My guests on the show today are writers Ross Barkan and John Pistelli, and they’re here to help me launch something new on the podcast, which is a series of shorter episodes that are dedicated to taking stock of the state of the intellectual discourse.

I don’t have a grand schema for what means. I’ve just been reaching out to a bunch of interesting people, some of them prior guests on the podcast, and asking them to “pick one idea, writer, cultural encounter, or text that you think has been significant in the past year or so.”

My only other criterion is that I’ve asked folks to try to avoid going too directly at the culture wars topics that suck up so much energy in the discourse right now. Those topics are important, of course, and no doubt we’ll touch on many of them in the course of things, including in today’s episode, but I didn’t want to start there.

John proposed today’s texts, which are two connected essays that suggest that we may be entering, if not necessarily a new romantic age, then at least a period in which certain romantic tendencies swirl more forcefully than they have in a long time. One is Ross’s December 2023 essay in the Guardian, “The zeitgeist is changing. A strange romantic backlash to the tech era looms.” The other is “Notes Toward a New Romanticism,” a Substack essay by cultural critic Ted Gioia.

I’d add to this mix some of the writing that John has been doing on his Substack, Grand Hotel Abyss; some of Ross’s work on his Substack, Political Currents; and maybe also some of the modern British literature lectures that John has been beaming out via his substack to his paid subscribers, of whom I’m one.

Ross Barkan is the author of three books, including the novel The Night Burns Bright. He's a contributing writer to the New York Times Magazine and his reporting and essays have appeared in a wide array of publications, including New York Magazine, The Nation, and the Guardian. He teaches journalism and writing at NYU. 

John Pistelli has written four novels, as well as short fiction, poetry and criticism for venues as diverse as Rain Taxi, The Millions, Tablet, and The Spectator. At his Substack, Grand Hotel Abyss, he publishes a weekly newsletter on literature and culture, serializes his latest novel, and offers independent literature courses, including on the writers of the Romantic era.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

Reading List:

* Oh, Mr Hitchens! by Laura Kipnis

* The Journalist and the Editor, by Laura Kipnis

* Sexual Paranoia Strikes Academe, Laura Kipnis

* My Title IX Inquisition, by Laura Kipnis

* Christopher Hitchens' last years: Islam, the Iraq war and how a man of the left found his moment by breaking with the left, by Daniel Oppenheimer

My guest on the show today is Laura Kipnis. Laura is a cultural critic and essayist whose work focuses on sexual politics, aesthetics, shame, emotion, acting out, moral messiness, and various other crevices of the American psyche. She is the author of, among other books, Unwanted Advances: Sexual Paranoia Comes to Campus; Men: Notes from an Ongoing Investigation; How to Become A Scandal; Against Love: A Polemic; The Female Thing: Dirt, Sex, Envy, Vulnerability; and Bound and Gagged: Pornography and the Politics of Fantasy in America–have been translated into fifteen languages. Her latest book, just out this past year, is Love in the Time of Contagion: A Diagnosis.

I’ve admired Laura’s writing for many years, but the specific reason I was prompted to invite her on the show today were two essays of very recent vintage. One was a review, for Bookforum, of the last book by Janet Malcolm, which was published after her death. And a short essay for Critical Quarterly on Christopher Hitchens that had the lovely title, “Oh, Mr. Hitchens!”

These essays resonated with me both on their own terms and because Janet Malcolm and Christopher Hitchens were—are—profoundly important to me. In very different ways I think they provided templates of what kind of things I might want to do as a writer. I also just loved reading them, and think my understanding of the world has been shaped by them. And Laura kind of got them.

The Hitchens piece, in particular, captured something about the man that I’ve seen captured by no one else. Take this passage, for instance, in which Laura is recounting an evening when she was drinking with Hitchens, before he was scheduled to give a talk at Northwestern. They get on the subject of Bill Clinton:

Something about Bill Clinton's sex life seemed to derange him. He was off the rails on the subject, literally sputtering. I tried to put it to him that he seemed, well, overinvested. It seemed way too personal, somehow off. What was it about Bill Clinton that had this unhinging effect on him? (I was kind of drunk at that point myself.) I suppose I expected him to at least pretend to ponder the question, devote maybe a few seconds to a show of self-examination. Anyone would. Not him. He was barricaded against anything I could say, also against the ‘what is this “about” for you’ sort of conversation that drunk people are known to have, which is one of the fun things about drinking, Something obdurate and hardened switched on instead. Thinking was not what was taking place, just pre-rehearsed lines and a lot of outrage.

This is exceptional writing. It’s also very perceptive about Hitchens in a way that sidesteps so many of the posthumous takes on Hitchens, which tend to divide far too cleanly between those who like or dislike his late politics. The problem with late Hitchens wasn’t that his politics changed, but that his thinking got more rigid and therefore writing got worse.

Laura and I talk about Hitch, Malcolm, her own backstory as a writer, and more.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In this episode of the podcast, I talk to Blake Smith and Gary Kornblau about the 30th anniversary edition of Dave Hickey’s seminal 1993 book The Invisible Dragon: Four Essays on Beauty.

Blake is currently a fellow with the Center for Advanced Study in Sofia, Bulgaria, as well as the author a great (which is to say, very flattering) review of my 2021 book on Hickey, and he was a stalwart participant in the Substack “book club” I organized on the new edition of Dragon. Gary is faculty at the ArtCenter College of Design. More pertinently, he was Dave’s great editor, having plucked him out of obscurity to write for art Issues, the small LA-based journal that Gary founded and edited. He was the one who gave Dave just the right amount of rein to do his best work, and also the one who conceptualized and edited both Invisible Dragon and Dave’s subsequent book Air Guitar.

The episode covers a lot of ground, including the impact of the original version of the book, the reasons why Gary decided to put out a 30th anniversary edition, and Gary’s decision to use the opportunity to try to “queer” Dave. It’s a blast. I hope you listen.

I also wanted to take the opportunity to run the below excerpt from my book on Dave. It covers the background to the writing and reception of Invisible Dragon, and is, IMO, a mighty fine piece of writing in its own right. Hope you enjoy.

On June 12, 1989, the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, DC, announced that it was cancelling Robert Mapplethorpe: The Perfect Moment, its scheduled exhibition of photographs by the celebrated American photographer, who had died of AIDS in March. The Corcoran’s primary motive in cancelling was fear.

Only a few months before, a long-simmering debate about the role of the federal government in funding the arts had boiled over in response to Piss Christ, a photograph of a small icon of Jesus on the cross floating in a vitrine of urine. Its creator, Andres Serrano, had received a small chunk of a larger grant from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), and the offending photograph had been included in a touring exhibition that was also funded by federal money. During that tour, the photograph caught the eye of the American Family Association, a conservative Chris­tian advocacy group dedicated to fighting what it saw as anti-Christian values in entertainment and the arts. They rang the alarm.

Soon after, New York Senator Alfonse D’Amato called out Piss Christ from the floor of the Senate. He tore up a reproduction of the photo and denounced it as a “deplorable, despicable display of vulgarity.” North Carolina Senator Jesse Helms, who would soon lead the charge against Mapplethorpe, added: “I do not know Mr. Andres Serrano, and I hope I never meet him. Because he is not an artist, he is a jerk. . . . Let him be a jerk on his own time and with his own resources. Do not dishonor our Lord.” Patrick Trueman, president of the American Family Association, testified to Congress that governmental support of work like Piss Christ would make it less likely that prosecutors would pursue or win cases against child pornographers.

The ensuing congressional battle, over funding for the NEA, became the first in a series of broader cultural and political battles that would come to be known, in retrospect, as the “culture wars” of the 1990s. These battles would range not just over sex and politics in the arts, but also over issues like gays in the military, federal funding for abor­tion, and control over history and social studies curricula in the public schools. It was “a war for the soul of America,” as Pat Buchanan framed it at the 1992 Republican Party convention, a contest over whether the nation would continue to secularize and liberalize or would return to a more conservative social equilibrium.

The full contours of the conflict weren’t immediately evident in the aftermath of the Serrano affair, but it was very clear, right away, that the Mapplethorpe exhibit was another grenade ready to go off. Its orga­nizers at the University of Pennsylvania had received NEA money, and the Corcoran Gallery, walking distance from the White House, was too visible an institution to slide by the notice of people like Helms and D’Amato. So the Corcoran begged off, hoping to shield themselves from the shrapnel and avoid giving conservatives another opportunity to question the value of federal funding for the arts.

Instead, they got fragged by all sides. By fellow curators and museum administrators, who believed the Corcoran’s appeasement would only encourage more aggression from haters of contemporary art. By civil lib­ertarians, who saw the Corcoran’s actions as an example of how expres­sive speech was being chilled by the culture war rhetoric of the right. By a major donor, a friend of Mapplethorpe, who angrily withdrew a promised bequest to the museum of millions of dollars. And, of course, by the conservatives they had been hoping to appease, who accurately recognized the blasphemy in Mapplethorpe’s federally funded portraits of sodomites doing naughty things to each other and themselves.

Piss Christ had been useful to the conservative cultural cause as an example of how homosexual artists were taking taxpayer money to spit on the values that decent Americans held dear, but it wasn’t ideal. How blasphemed could a good Christian really feel, after all, by an image of Jesus as reverential as what Serrano had in fact made? His Christ was bathed in glowing red-orange-yellow light, the image scored by dots and lines of tiny bubbles that come off almost like traces of exhumation, as if the whole thing has been recently, lovingly removed from the reliquary in which it’s been preserved for thousands of years.

“I think if the Vatican is smart,” Serrano later said, “someday they’ll collect my work. I am not a heretic. I like to believe that rather than destroy icons, I make new ones.”

Mapplethorpe’s pictures, though, were something else entirely, a real cannon blast against the battlements of heterosexual normativity. Where Serrano was mostly using new means to say some very old things about the mystery of the incarnation and the corporeality of Christ, Mapplethorpe was using orthodox pictorial techniques to bring to light a world of pleasure, pain, male-male sex, bondage, power, trust, desire, control, violation, submission, love, and self-love that had been ban­ished to the dark alleyways, boudoirs, bathhouses, and rest stops of the West since the decline of Athens. And he was doing so masterfully, in the language of fine art, in the high houses of American culture.

There was Lou, for instance, which could have been a photograph of a detail from an ancient bronze of Poseidon except that the detail in question is of Poseidon’s muscled arm holding his cock firmly in one hand while the pinky finger of his other hand probes its hole. In Helmut and Brooks, a fist disappearing up an anus plays like an academic exercise in shape and shadow. And in the now iconic Self-Portrait, Mapplethorpe has the handle of a bullwhip up his own rectum, his balls dangling in shadow beneath, his legs sheathed in leather chaps, his eyes staring back over his shoulder at the camera with a gaze so full of intelligence and vitality that it almost steals the show from the bullwhip.

In response to these kinds of beautiful provocations, the outrage, which had been largely performative vis-à-vis Serrano, became rather genuine, and the whole thing escalated. By July, a month after the exhibition at the Corcoran had been cancelled, Congress was debating whether to eliminate entirely the $171 million budget of the National Endowment for the Arts. By October, a compromise was reached. The NEA and its sister fund, the National Endowment for the Humanities, would get their usual rounds of funding, minus a symbolic $45,000 for the cost of the Serrano and Mapplethorpe grants. They would be pro­hibited, however, from using the monies to support work that was too gay, too creepy in depicting c…

Reading list:

* A personal and stirring guide to the great Dutch painters, by Sebastian Smee

* Benjamin Moser on What We Can Learn from Failed Dutch Painters, by Benjamin Moser

* How Gayness Changed During My Lifetime, by Benjamin Moser

* Enemies of Promise, by Cyril Connolly

My guest on the podcast today is Benjamin Moser, who was born in Houston but has lived for the past twenty plus years in Utrecht in the Netherlands, a city he describes as the Brooklyn to Amsterdam’s Manhattan, close by but different vibe. 

He is the author of Why This World: A Biography of Clarice Lispector, a finalist for the National Book Critics’ Circle Award and a New York Times Notable Book of 2009. His subsequent book, Sontag: Her Life and Work, won the Pulitzer Prize for Biography. His new book is The Upside Down World: Meetings with the Dutch Masters, which is about his personal encounters, while living the last two decades in Utrecht, with the great painters of the Dutch golden age, folks like Vermeer and Rembrandt but also a host of other, lesser known but still quite extraordinary painters of that era from the late 16th century to the late 17th century. 

I framed the challenge of my conversation with Ben as having to simultaneously accomplish two objectives that are in tension: to pay serious attention to his book, which is primarily about a rather distant past, while also honoring the ethos of my podcast, which is about the present and recent present. And we needed to do it in a real way, not a phony “the great painters of the past still breathe vibrantly in the present” sort of way.

I think we pulled it off, with flying colors, but I suppose that you, the listeners, will be the ultimate judge of that.

Reading list:

* An Open Letter to Ta-Nehisi Coates and the Liberals Who Love Him, by Cedric Johnson

* The Enduring Solidarity of Whiteness [a reply to Johnson’s open letter], by Ta-Nehisi Coates

* The Panthers Can’t Save Us Now, by Cedric Johnson

* What Black Life Actually Looks Like, by Cedric Johnson

* The Case for Reparations, by Ta-Nehisi Coates

* The Coates Chronicles: The White Period, by Daniel Oppenheimer

My guest on the show today is Cedric Johnson, professor of political science and black studies at the University of Illinois Chicago and the author, most recently, of After Black Lives Matter: Policing and Anti-Capitalist Struggle. 

I asked Cedric on to talk about two things, but I think in a sense they’re one thing, or at least very continuous with each other. The first is Ta-Nehisi Coates, perhaps the most significant American public intellectual of the last few decades. The second is Cedric’s recent book, After Black Lives Matter, and its critique, from the Marxist left, of both Black Lives Matter and the broader antiracist liberalism of which, according to Cedric’s analysis, it is a manifestation.

Coates doesn’t play a role in the new book, but he is, by my lights at least, the figure at the center of the ongoing race vs. class intra-left debate in which Cedric continue to intervene. Here’s how Cedric describes it in his 2016 piece for Jacobin magazine, “An Open Letter to Ta-Nehisi Coates and the Liberals Who Love Him,”

Ultimately, Coates’s views about class and race — and this nation’s complex and tortured historical development — are well-meaning and at times poetic, but wrongheaded. The reparations argument is rooted in black nationalist politics, which traditionally elides class and neglects the way that race-first politics are often the means for advancing discrete, bourgeois class interests. … Most of all, Coates is wrong about how we have achieved black political and social progress in the past, and what we should do going forward. From the antebellum anti-slavery struggles to the postwar southern desegregation campaigns to contemporary battles against austerity, interracialism and popular social struggle have been central to improving the civic and material circumstances of African Americans, and at the level of daily life, such movements have confronted racist habits and perceptions, sweeping aside old boundaries to create new notions of communion and solidarity.

Cedric is the author of, among other books, The Panthers Can’t Save Us Now (Verso, 2022), Revolutionaries to Race Leaders: Black Power and the Making of African American Politics (University of Minnesota Press, 2007) and this year's After Black Lives Matter.  He is also the editor of The Neoliberal Deluge: Hurricane Katrina, Late Capitalism and the Remaking of New Orleans (University of Minnesota Press, 2011). His writings have appeared in Labor Studies, Catalyst, Dissent, Nonsite, Jacobin, New Labor Forum, Perspectives on Politics, and Historical Materialism.  In 2008, Johnson was named the Jon Garlock Labor Educator of the Year by the Rochester Central Labor Council, AFL-CIO. He is a member of UIC United Faculty Local 6456.

Eminent Americans is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.