NOVEMBER 29, 2020

A
Geneticist’s
Dilemma
A growing number of
scientists believe that the
cure for disease can be
found in our DNA. But that
poses a unique problem for
some Native Americans.
BY OSCAR SCHWARTZ

Photos: Brazil’s true colors In D.C., luxury rentals are sitting pretty — and empty
 11.29.20
○ Art With a Point
Title: “Restoration”
Artist: Jon Krause, Philadelphia
From the artist: President-elect Joe
Biden faces an enormous challenge:
repairing the damage done by the current
administration. The United States is like a
muscle car that’s been beaten down, but
perhaps it can be restored to its former
glory, and even improved on in the
process. It feels better knowing the car is
in the shop, at least — not careering down
a highway with no brakes.
For more art from the magazine’s table of
contents, go to wapo.st/mag-art.
On the cover: Photo of Navajo geneticist
Rene Begay by Michael Ciaglo
A Geneticist’s Dilemma
A growing number of scientists believe that the cure for
disease can be found in our DNA. But that poses a unique
problem for some Native Americans. 10
Brazil’s True Colors
This duo of photographers is pushing to have the country’s
diversity reflected in the marketplace. 16
Opening Lines
In D.C., luxury rentals are sitting pretty — and empty. 2
Tom Sietsema
A review of Thacher & Rye in Frederick, Md. 24
Inside
Just Asking 6 Date Lab 8 Second Glance 27 Crossword 28
Gene Weingarten 29
Editor: Richard Just Deputy editor: David
Rowell Projects editor: Alexa McMahon
Articles editors: Whitney Joiner, Richard
Leiby Dining editor: Joe Yonan Art directors:
Christian Font, Suzette Moyer, Clare
Ramirez Photo editor: Dudley M. Brooks
Copy editors: Jennifer Abella, Angie Wu
Columnist: Gene Weingarten Food critic: Tom
Sietsema Staff writer: David Montgomery
Editorial aide: Daniele Seiss Production
coordinator: Mark Giaimo Account manager:
Trish Ward Marketing manager: Travis T.
Meyer Production manager: LaShanda
Swancy Production coordinator: Tyesha
Greenwood Graphic designer: Jill Madsen
Web: wapo.st/magazine
Twitter: @wpmagazine
Instagram: @washingtonpostmag
Facebook: The Washington Post Magazine
Email: wpmagazine@washpost.com
Editorial: 202-334-7585
Advertising: 202-334-5224
Opening A bedroom of a
vacant apartment at
the Residences at

Lines
Eastern Market, a
luxury building in
Washington.
Photograph by
Amanda
Andrade-Rhoades

Covid didn’t halt luxury development, but now D.C. rentals are sitting pretty — and empty
BY JESSICA M. GOLDSTEIN

C
ranes still cut across the clouds above Washington. Stroll the Southwest Waterfront or swing by NoMa, and
you’ll see that D.C. has not stopped building, not even during a pandemic. Near the end of March, Mayor
Muriel Bowser deemed the construction and building trades essential — and so, even as much of the city
shut down during the spring and summer, developers kept developing. But at the same time, covid-19 sent
plenty of D.C. renters fleeing for places they’d long avoided (suburbia, their parents’ houses) and made
potential newcomers wary of settling in the center of the city.
Anybody with even the flimsiest grasp on the concept of supply and demand could tell you what was coming: All over
the city, a glut of rentals are sitting pretty and empty, their stainless-steel appliances gleaming for no one. D.C. luxury
rentals, which make up about one-third of the city’s offerings, have taken a major hit, according to data from Delta
Associates, a Mid-Atlantic commercial real estate research firm: From September 2019 to September 2020, the rate of
stabilized vacancies — apartments that should be occupied but aren’t — went from 4.4 to 7.8 percent.
According to industry standards, “luxury,” or Class A, units are apartments that check these boxes: new construction
(built within the past decade or so), new appliances, hardwood floors, in-unit washer-dryers, and typically some shared
amenities such as rooftop pools and fitness centers. The offerings get bougier from there, such as “smart” thermostats
and keyless-entry doors, but that’s the baseline. Class B is everything else: older buildings, even renovated ones, that
still can’t shake that 1980s feel (e.g., kitchen counters made of lower-quality materials instead of quartz). Delta

2 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 3


associate Moustafa Fahmy estimates the rent for a luxury studio in
D.C. at $1,800 to $2,400 a month, with a one-bedroom going up to
$2,600 or so and a three-bedroom around $3,200.
Those steep prices were easier to swallow in simpler times, like
2019. But what once made the happening, bustling neighborhoods in
D.C. enticing is now, mid-pandemic, either moot or actively terrifying:
proximity to bars, restaurants and nightlife (everything’s closed or full
of people, who are full of germs); a short walk or Metro ride to the
office (irrelevant as long as the office is your kitchen table); alive with
the possibility of bumping into people in common spaces like a
Nancy Hammond Editions
Koi by Nancy Hammond Signed and numbered Limited Edition Giclee Print 32” x 48”
Annapolis, MD • St. Michaels MD • 410-295-6612 • www.NancyHammondEditions.com
These pages: Philippe Lanier, a principal at
EastBanc, whose real estate development
branch is behind a handful of luxury D.C.
buildings. The kitchen of a model unit at the
Residences at Eastern Market. Photographs
by Amanda Andrade-Rhoades
building’s pools, gyms and even elevators (just the thought of sharing
an elevator right now ... no).
“The suburbs and outer submarkets are thriving due to covid,”
Brendan Pierce, a senior associate with Delta, told me. “The more
dense the area, the worse that area is doing.”
Lately, the trend is as follows: Rentals aren’t moving and rents are
falling. According to Delta, the three submarkets in which Class A
rents have fallen the most during the pandemic are the area that
includes Dupont Circle, downtown, Mount Vernon Triangle and a bit
of Foggy Bottom and Logan Circle, which saw rents fall 12.7 percent
since September 2019; Capitol Hill and the Southwest Riverfront,
where rents dropped 12 percent; and upper Georgia Avenue, where
rents are down by 11.7 percent. Overall, D.C. rents for high-rise luxury
units decreased by 10.7 percent from September 2019 to September
2020.
Philippe Lanier is a principal at EastBanc, whose real estate
development branch is behind a handful of luxury D.C. buildings,
including the Westlight at 23rd and L streets NW; the Silva, which is
Signed Artist Proof 40” x 60”
still in development in Adams Morgan; and the Residences at Eastern
Market, where, Lanier says, “we put in a lot of three-bedrooms” that
they’re having trouble filling. (The building has over 20 three-bedroom
units and almost as many with two bedrooms plus a den.) He says that
other unit classes are 85 to 90 percent occupied, but the large
apartments are “where we’re feeling the vacancies.”
Another important factor: 2020 has seen plenty of renters become
first-time buyers. “Interest rates are at all-time historic lows,” says
Long & Foster associate broker Terri Robinson, who has been selling in
D.C. for 50 years. “People are moving out past the Beltway, and there’s
still multiple offers. Montgomery County, Fairfax County. Some of the
suburbs like Great Falls and Potomac that suffered in the past — those
are coming back. People want more space, and they want a single-
family home.”
“We have a number of people who’ve left to buy a home and finally
move out,” says Lanier. Meanwhile, would-be renters are wary of the
commitment a lease requires. “When you think about moving in: Why
am I moving into an apartment and signing a one-year lease? That’s a
difficult decision,” Lanier says.
On the other end of the economic spectrum, record numbers of offering a month free (basically a 13-month lease). Lanier says his
Americans have filed for unemployment since the pandemic began. properties are taking a more service-y approach: They’ll cover renters’
People who are trying to get by on spotty government assistance — the moving costs, and “we’re also offering additional packages that are
$600 weekly unemployment benefit secured by the Cares Act in March dealing with furnishings,” assuming you’re upsizing and “may not have
expired at the end of July; at press time, future aid was still extremely the furniture to outfit that apartment.”
TBD — aren’t in a position to move into a luxury condo, no matter what “Rents are low,” Pierce allows. “Of course, you have a higher chance
concessions are on the table. of catching covid. But a better chance to lock in a good price.”
That said, there are a lot of concessions on the table, should you be
in a position to upgrade: In an effort to hit their occupancy goals, Jessica M. Goldstein is a regular contributor to The Post’s Style section and the
plenty of swanky buildings are lowering rent and, in some cases, magazine.
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Just Asking
“The reason [racism] hasn’t changed in
all these years is because we still
haven’t talked about it.”
Jason Reynolds
INTERVIEW AND PHOTOGRAPH BY KK OTTESEN
Jason Reynolds, 36, is an award-winning poet and best-selling author of
books for young adults and middle-grade readers, including “Long Way
Down” and “Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You,” an adaptation of
Ibram X. Kendi’s “Stamped From the Beginning.” He is the Library of
Congress’s national ambassador for young people’s literature.
You’ve had a run of significant books, but it seems like
“Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You” has really been a book
the moment demanded. Did that surprise you?
No. [Laughs.] I think there’s no way you could be living in this
moment and be surprised that that book did what it did, right?
People are looking for something to bite down on to give them some
sort of footing in a time like today. It just happened to be at the right
time. To be completely honest, so as long as the children have
something that they can hold and say, All right, this will be my
compass, this will show me true north in the moments that get a little
rocky and a little shaky as it pertains to race in America, to give me
some context and some framing, then I’m good.
Have you had any particularly meaningful discussions about it
with young readers?
Right when the book was coming out, before we were all on
lockdown, we did a talk in D.C. in, I think, Columbia Heights. And
this one young lady just expressed how angry she is. Not because of
the content of the book, but because she felt like she couldn’t
understand why the adults in her life were keeping this information
from her. She felt like she had been lied to. Right? And, of course, we
were trying to get her to understand that most of the adults in her life
don’t know this information, either. [Laughs.] I mean, I came into
contact with most of this when I was writing the book — that’s what
makes Dr. Kendi’s research so important is that much of that just
wasn’t known. But she just felt like, why is it that we haven’t been
taught this? Because this is American history. Why is it that they
think that we can’t handle this conversation and this information?
She’s 14. And that was super special just to hear this young lady who
6 NOVEMBER 29, 2020
K8P0V4L
was very quiet at first, but when it was time to speak just really air out
her grievances with the adults in her life.
You’ve said your aim isn’t to teach, necessarily, but rather to
observe and kind of document young people’s lives — do you
think that’s one of the reasons your books resonate with them?
That’s it. I’m not interested in teaching. I think young people have
enough teachers in their lives. My job is to be the cool uncle. Right?
I’m here to give you a nickname and throw an arm around your
shoulder and go on that walk with you. And let you say whatever you
want to say — without telling your mama and daddy. That’s it. Bear
witness to your life, to the bigness of your life. Nobody wants to hear
what their mother and father has to say. But everybody wants to hear
what their cool uncle and auntie has to say, even if it’s the exact same
information. [Laughs.]
How optimistic are you that this knowledge, that these
conversations, can contribute to the discussion of race in this
country and help change things?
I’m super hopeful. More than anything on this planet, I believe in
children. I think children are the most human of the humans. Look, I
am an adult, and I love the adults in my life. But we talk about where
the hope is, I’m not looking at us, right? [Laughs.] I’m looking at
these kids. And the reason I have so much hope, especially as it
pertains to this book and their consumption of it, is because I believe
that if we can figure out how to add and change the vocabulary
around race, the lexicon, if we can figure out how to tie that lexicon to
the psyches of children, then as they get older, the comfort with
which they’re able to talk about it will lead to the opportunity for it to
actually change.
The reason [racism] hasn’t changed in all these years is because
we still haven’t talked about it. People will say, “Well, all we got to do
is not talk about racism, and it’ll go away.” We ain’t talked about it
yet. Not in truth. Not with intention.
KK Ottesen is a regular contributor to the magazine. This interview has been
edited and condensed. For a longer version, visit wapo.st/magazine.
THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 7

Date Lab WITH RICH JUZWIAK
They were living in the
moment. Now what?
Editor’s note: Due to the coronavirus pandemic, Date Lab is not business
as usual. Today, we’re switching things up and catching up with a pair of
previous Date Labbers. Sam and Flo were first featured in Date Lab in July
2019. Below is a condensed version of the original column, along with a
new update.
O
ur Date Lab specimens this week make a good case for the
joy of the self-contained date in a pairing that’s most likely
going nowhere. A proper date for dating’s sake.
Flo Low’s name is something of a misnomer, as her energy flow
is through the roof. She is the kind of person to suggest to her date
that they jump in the CityCenterDC fountain during their photo
shoot.
“I’m not gonna do that” was the reaction of Sam Fishman, who
conceded that while he had been excited for the date, he didn’t
quite sport Flo’s zero-to-all-in zeal. “She started to rock
immediately,” Sam recalled. Flo’s energy helped gloss over the
considerable age difference between them: She’s 38, and he’s 24.
Both said they were immediately aware of it; neither said that it
8 NOVEMBER 29, 2020
“I just said, ‘I’m older than you,’ ” said Flo. “And I think he said,
‘Probably.’ And I said, ‘Is that an issue for you?’ And he said, ‘No.’ ”
Sam Fishman
is 24. He is a project
assistant at a nonprofit,
and his dream date is a
“human rights lawyer magnetized. They sat closer. Arms rested against arms. At one RATE THE DATE
from South America point, Sam put his arm on the back of her chair. Flo: 5 [out of 5]. “It will be in the legendary column of great first
who’s ... fighting for the Flo was transparent about her attraction to Sam, whom she dates.”
rights of the people of
described as “really cute” and well put-together. Sam was a little Sam: 4.5. “Easy. No doubt about it.”
her country.”
more nebulous. He said that he went out of his way to not give any
clues as to how young he is, and that he also didn’t want to reveal UPDATE
Flo Low
is 38. She manages a that he was planning a move to New York. He didn’t want to break Flo, in addition to her regular job, has been developing creative
fellowship for Israeli the mood. But at the same time, he didn’t feel a romantic spark. projects while working at home — including animated short films
artists at U.S. And yet still, he described Flo as “very attractive,” both physically featuring the stories of covid-19 first responders.
universities and says and socially. “I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Zoom dating,” she tells
that “brainiacs are my So what gives? Even Sam had a hard time putting his finger on us. “I always loved the venue, there was no confusion over the
kryptonite.” why he behaved as he did, but the best I could tease out of him was check, and I didn’t have to worry about awkward goodbyes! I
that he was enjoying the fun of flirtation and living in the moment. ultimately went on a number of successful, fun first and second
Flo was too. She’s at a different stage in life, ready to settle down, dates before meeting someone I have been dating in person for the
but she didn’t need the date to be anything other than what it was. past several months.”
She set out to have a fun evening. Mission accomplished. Sam, meanwhile, has gone back to school — in New York. “The
After over six hours together, Sam walked Flo home. Before they pandemic has definitely impacted my dating life — but in a positive
parted, they kissed. Flo took a page from Sam’s book and declined way,” he says. “Due to the pandemic, an old friend moved back to
to describe the intensity of said kiss. “A lady never tells” is how she her parents’ apartment in New York, and we are now in a
left it. committed relationship.”
Sign up for Date
Lab at washington
I CHOSE
post.com/datelab.
The Lotus is affordable yet spacious, features a
Ingleside
stylish open concept, and has a den with windows
ultimately mattered.
They met in May at Fig & Olive, where they sipped cocktails and
shared the Mediterranean sampler app. She ordered the Chilean looking out onto a good-sized balcony.
bass; he, the chicken. Sam reported that Flo talked a lot, but he
noticed her listening, too; big, icebreaker-y “Miss America
questions” were crucial elements of her repertoire. Flo said that
because Sam immediately put her at ease, she felt comfortable to
probe.
“She asked me stuff about dating that I was really not excited to
be talking about,” said Sam. “On a first date, I don’t want to talk
about ex-girlfriends.” So when Flo asked Sam, “Have you ever had
your heart broken?” he responded, “I think not,” and kept it
moving.
Flo, who manages a fellowship for Israeli artists at U.S.
universities, felt a sense of do-gooder kinship with Sam, who works
on Latin American issues at a democracy-promotion organization.
They’re both Jewish, though Flo sensed that cultural identity is way
more central to her lifestyle than it is for Sam.
After completing dinner (and downing three drinks each in the
process), they decided to move things elsewhere. They walked to
the bar Jackpot in Chinatown, where they finally broached the age SCHEDULE A PRIVATE TOUR!
issue. “I just said, ‘I’m older than you,’ ” said Flo. “And I think he
said, ‘Probably.’ And I said, ‘Is that an issue for you?’ And he said, 240-205-8182
‘No.’ ”
Throughout the rest of the night, which stretched on for several www.ikfmd.org
more hours and featured some whiskey shots, they slowly
PHOTO: DANIELE SEISS
A NOT-FOR-PROFIT LIFE PLAN COMMUNITY

A
Geneticist’s
Dilemma
A growing number of scientists
believe that the cure for disease
can be found in our DNA. But
that poses a unique problem for
some Native Americans.
STORY BY OSCAR SCHWARTZ
PHOTOGRAPH BY MICHAEL CIAGLO
10
O n a clear and icy morning in February of this year, I picked up Rene
Begay from the Albuquerque airport. We headed west toward the
Navajo Nation reservation, the largest tribal land base in the United
States, spanning 27,500 square miles between Arizona, Utah and New
Mexico. Begay, a 31-year-old Navajo scientist with a background in
genetic research, spent her childhood in various towns throughout the
reservation. She’d just flown in from Denver, where she works as a
research assistant at the Centers for American Indian and Alaska Native
Health at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus. She
wore a blue velveteen blouse — a garment customarily worn by Navajo
women — and jeans. “Something traditional and something modern,”
she said.
Our first stop would be Chinle, Ariz., a town of about 5,000 people,
where Begay’s mother lives. The two are very close, and Begay flies down
from Denver as often as possible to visit. As we exited the Albuquerque
city limits, Begay told me I could turn off the GPS; she’d direct me the rest
of the way. The landscape grew flatter and redder as we approached the
border of the Navajo Nation. “It always feels good to be coming home,”
she said.
After investigating the causes of hereditary heart disease for her
master’s project, Begay dreamed of using genetic insights to better
understand cardiovascular health in her community. Given that Native
American adults are 50 percent more likely to be affected by obesity than
non-Hispanic whites, and twice as likely to be diabetic, this would be
valuable work. But it would also contravene tribal law. In 2002, the
Navajo Nation government instituted a tribal-wide moratorium on
genetic research. This decision, which had both medical and religious
motivations, put a stop to any genetic research taking place on the
reservation and holds to this day.
The moratorium stands at odds with a much-hyped and well-funded
national health initiative, called the All of Us Research Program,
launched by the Obama administration in 2015. Led by the National
Institutes of Health (NIH), the program aims to collect medical and
genetic data from 1 million Americans by around 2025, at a cost of about
$1.5 billion. The purpose is to advance “precision medicine,” a medical
paradigm that postulates that the determinants of disease often lie in
glitches in our biology.
To ensure that the benefits of this research go to every American, All of
Us has been actively recruiting participants from racial and ethnic
minorities. At NIH, this diverse recruitment drive is seen as part of a
progressive, trailblazing vision that will bring medical insight to commu-
nities that have historically been overlooked and underfunded, including
Native American tribal nations.
Yet providing DNA samples to a federal study as a member of a
sovereign tribal nation is not a matter of opting in as an individual;
participants would be representing a nation within a nation. And for
Navajo living on tribal land, participating in All of Us directly contradicts
the 2002 moratorium. Since 2015 officials at All of Us have devoted time
and funds toward engaging with Native American communities to
ensure that recruitment accords with these unique circumstances. But
last year, after it became clear that All of Us had recruited some tribal
members — albeit off tribal lands — without first completing a consulta-
tion process with tribal leaders, concerns were raised about the program’s
policies by some Native American scientists.
To some precision-medicine evangelists, the Navajo moratorium
appears to be an outdated policy, holding the community back from
participating in valuable research, possibly exacerbating current health
disparities. Others, however, feel that the Navajo Nation’s moratorium is
a prudent policy — that precision medicine is simply a high-tech medical
panacea destined to fail the Americans who need it most. Amid the
coronavirus crisis — which has disproportionately affected the Navajo
Nation — more are joining the chorus questioning this gene-centric
approach to medicine.
As a scientist, Begay comprehends the potential of programs like All of
Us, which could bring new medical insight for underserved communi-
Opposite page: Navajo researcher and geneticist
Rene Begay in a lab at the University of Colorado
Anschutz Medical Campus in Aurora, Colo. Page
10: Begay at Cherry Creek State Park in Aurora.
ties. But as a Navajo woman, steeped in the traditions and history of her
people, she discerns the wisdom of the moratorium’s precautionary logic.
“Many things have been taken from us and we have seen nothing in
return,” she said as she directed me down the highway toward her
ancestral homelands. “We want to make sure that it won’t be the same
with our DNA. That if we give it up, we will see the benefits.”
A fter a 3½-hour drive west, Begay and I arrived in Chinle, a town that
lies a few miles from the perimeter of Canyon de Chelly, a great
cascading national monument of red sandstone. Eons before Europeans
arrived in the region, the Diné — which translates as “the people” and is
how the Navajo refer to themselves — had established a highly organized
way of life along the river that flows through the canyon, building houses
of packed mud and wood called hogans; hunting deer and antelope; and
sowing crops of corn, beans and squash.
In the 1840s, U.S. troops initiated a scorched-earth campaign against
the Navajo, burning settlements and slaughtering livestock. In 1864,
more than 10,000 tribespeople were captured and forcibly marched to a
reservation 300 miles away in modern-day New Mexico. This deporta-
tion, known as the Long Walk, ended in four years of exile in a dysentery-
and smallpox-infested camp, where thousands perished. In 1868, the
U.S. government signed a treaty with the Navajo that allowed them to
return to their homelands.
Over the decades, the Navajo rebuilt. Now the Nation is the second-
largest tribe in America, with more than 300,000 members, about half
living on the reservation. For the Navajo, as for other Native Americans,
the oppression of colonialism persists in health disparities. Today, a
resident of Chinle is, on average, more likely to suffer from tuberculosis,
diabetes, alcoholism and heart disease than a resident in most other
American towns.
Begay grew up on the reservation among a family of healers, nurses
and medical workers. From a young age, she was keenly aware of her
people’s condition. Her mother’s maternal grandfather was a medicine
man who performed healing ceremonies up until his 104th year. Begay
never met him, but she spent every summer under the care of his
daughter, her grandmother, who oversaw the ritual and communal life of
the family.
When Begay was 12, she underwent her coming-of-age ceremonies at
the family’s hogan at their property in Salina Springs, a small settlement
31 miles southwest of Chinle. Over four days, relatives and friends visited
to present her with jewelry and belts. Laden with these ornaments, she
ran three times a day, toward the rising, midday and setting sun — each
journey a little bit farther than the one before. This ceremony provided
strength to help Begay move on to the next stage of life with the support of
her community. A sense of belonging and peoplehood, Begay explained
to me, is central to Navajo health. “It was at my grandmother’s that I
learned that health is tied to tradition; it is a community effort,” she said.
She learned about Western medicine from her mother, a nurse for the
U.S. Department of Health and Human Services’ Indian Health Service
who worked in hospitals around the Southwest. Begay absorbed every-
thing her mother told her about work at the hospital. “When she was only
a little girl Rene got sick, so I took her to the pediatrician,” her mother told
me. “The doctor asked me what medication she’d been taking, but before
I could get a word out, Rene answered, ‘acetaminophen.’ ”
Begay studied science at the University of Arizona in Tucson, then
12 NOVEMBER 29, 2020
moved to Denver after graduation to take a post-baccalaureate research
position at the University of Colorado Anschutz Medical Campus. She
joined a team investigating the causes of cardiomyopathy, a disease that
weakens the heart muscle and restricts movement of blood around the
body. Mostly, this is caused by aging and lifestyle, but in some cases the
disease is heritable. Begay worked in a lab analyzing the genetic profile of
an intergenerational Italian family that suffered from the hereditary
form of this disease.
During her days in the lab, Begay often thought about how she might
apply her new skills on the reservation. She knew that heart disease was
chronic among her people, but now she began to consider whether there
might be a genetic explanation. Perhaps, she thought, she could continue
her family’s legacy of health work — this time at a molecular level.
S uch is the promise of precision medicine: that deciphering the
genetic code of disease will allow scientists to fix our biological
glitches. This medical paradigm has its origins in the 1980s, when
scientists began identifying specific genetic mutations associated with
rare inherited diseases, like cystic fibrosis. In the 1990s, an international
consortium set about mapping the full human genome to better under-
stand this genetic basis of disease, a task that was completed, at an
expense of $3 billion, by 2003.
This was a significant achievement. But the full genome map also
revealed a more complicated genetic structure for disease than previously
imagined. Unlike cystic fibrosis, where there is a neat correlation
between a single DNA error and sickness, the maladies that are responsi-
ble for the vast majority of human morbidity — heart disease, diabetes,
cancer — implicated a web of mutations too numerous and complex to
plot. For some, this suggested that there was a limit to the medical insight
to be gained from studying the genome. Others maintained that by
gathering more genomic data, scientists would eventually understand
the biological cause of disease and from there would be able to tailor
treatments to individual bodies.
Begay, like many others, became enthralled by the promise of
precision medicine. Toward the end of her first year at the lab outside
Denver, her supervisor encouraged her to start formulating a master’s
project. Begay wanted to conduct research within the Navajo communi-
ty, but she soon found that there was little existing genetic data to work
with. If she was going to investigate the genetic cause of heart disease
among the Navajo, she would have to collect the samples herself.
But this would not be possible. Twelve years earlier, when the Navajo
Nation had asserted its sovereign right to suspend all genetic research
involving tribal members who live on the reservation, the decision was, in
part, justified on religious grounds. In the Navajo belief system, every
small part of the body contains the essence of the whole. For some, even
fingernails and hair must be disposed of correctly, lest fragments fall into
the wrong hands.
To find a way through this impasse, Begay met with a medicine man at
her uncle’s house for a ceremony. She had been oblivious to the
moratorium when she started working in genetics; now she was finding it
difficult to reconcile her chosen science with her inherited traditions. The
medicine man told Begay that even though she could not conduct
research on the reservation, she could continue working with non-Nava-
jo populations. “He wanted to make sure that before handling samples I’d
ask the holy people for permission, that I keep up my prayers and
continue to ask the creator to do this kind of work,” she told me.
In 2014, Begay started her master’s project at the University of
Colorado medical campus, sequencing gene mutations associated with
cardiomyopathy in zebrafish. She had received permission from her
elders to work with non-Navajo DNA but still felt uncertain about her
future. Seeking guidance, she reached out to Náníbaa’ Garrison, a Navajo
scientist with a PhD in genetics. Garrison told Begay about the Summer
Internship for Indigenous Peoples in Genomics (known as SING), an
“Many things have
been taken from us
and we have seen
nothing in return,”
Rene Begay said. “We
want to make sure that
it won’t be the same
with our DNA.”
annual, week-long course about genetics taught by mostly Native aca-
demics.
That summer, Begay traveled to Austin for the workshop, where she
met other Indigenous geneticists from around the world. Opposition to
genetic research was not unique to the Navajo, Begay learned, but was a
position taken by many communities, responding directly to a history of
medical exploitation. In America, this stretched back to the days when
the remains of Native American people were exhumed, measured,
analyzed and displayed in vast medical exhibitions known as bone rooms.
The same colonial attitude echoed throughout the genetic era,
beginning toward the end of the past century. In the 1990s, for instance,
researchers from Arizona State University drew blood from members of
the Havasupai, a tribal nation of fewer than 1,000 people. The stated
purpose was to investigate the genetic cause of diabetes, an illness that
affects the Havasupai in high numbers. Blood was given on the premise
that the tribe would see some medical insight in return for their
contribution. In the years that followed, however, the diabetes research
program stalled while the blood samples were shared with other re-
searchers to investigate subjects to which the tribe had not consented.
The Havasupai only learned of this in 2003, when Carletta Tilousi, a
tribal member and an ASU undergraduate student, attended a lecture by
a doctoral student whose project involved using Havasupai DNA to trace
PHOTO: JAY DICKMAN
the tribe’s migration history. For many Native American tribes, this type
of population genetics is threatening, as it can undermine creation stories
or complicate the principles of tribal membership. At the end of the
presentation, Tilousi raised her hand and asked the doctoral student if he
had been given permission from any tribal member to handle their blood.
He had not. (The Havasupai took the university to court, where they
settled in 2010. ASU paid $700,000 to the tribe and returned the blood
samples.)
The story of the Havasupai was not an isolated incident. Similar
events transpired when genetic researchers took blood from the Pima
Indians of Arizona and the Nuu-chah-nulth people of the Canadian
Pacific Northwest: Promises were made about what the samples would
be used for, and were later broken. This history troubled Begay, but she
felt grateful to have learned about it from other Indigenous researchers.
“The people I met saw their role not just as scientists, but as a kind of
barrier between their communities and non-native biomedical research-
ers,” Begay told me. “It was the first time I realized that scientists could
advocate for their people.”
I n January 2015, when Begay was a year through her master’s program,
President Barack Obama unveiled the Precision Medicine Initiative
(later renamed All of Us), an ambitious plan to build one of the largest
and most diverse genetic databases in the world. Until that point, the vast
majority of global medical genetic studies had been conducted on people
of European ancestry.
If the genetic determinants of common disease were the same across
different populations, this sampling bias would have been inconsequen-
tial. But this is not the case. Type 2 diabetes, for example, might be
associated with a different DNA variant in a person of native South
American ancestry than someone of European or African ancestry. By
leaving non-European populations out, the potential benefits of preci-
sion medicine would go only to a small, White subset of humanity.
The project attempted to correct for this by recruiting a population
that adequately represented the country’s population. “We knew we
couldn’t exclude people in this endeavor that was really meant to be a
national resource,” Stephanie Devaney, the chief operating officer for All
of Us, told me. To this end, a fleet of blue minibuses were sent from state
to state to do community outreach and enroll participants.
In the summer of 2017, a delegation from All of Us gave a lecture at the
annual SING workshop, held that year at the University of Arizona. The
representative explained how Native American communities had been
underrepresented in genetic databases and that All of Us was trying to
rectify this through active recruitment. Begay, who now had her master’s
degree and a research position at the Centers for American Indian and
Alaska Native Health, heard little about the program again until June
2019, when delegates from All of Us started a nationwide tribal consulta-
tion tour.
By this stage, however, the study had already enrolled more than
1,600 people who self-identified as American Indian or Alaskan Natives
with tribal affiliation. This recruitment occurred off tribal lands, mean-
ing the program did not technically contravene sovereignty. But All of Us
had targeted research institutions in cities with a high percentage of
Native American residents.
As news of this recruitment made its way to members of SING, some
became increasingly critical of the program. Two of the most outspoken
voices were Krystal Tsosie, a Navajo geneticist, and Joseph Yracheta, a
research scientist of Mexican Indigenous ancestry. Both questioned
whether this drive for “diversity” was motivated by a colonial impulse to
collect rare genetic data. “The whole reason people want to sample us is
because our genome doesn’t look like anybody else,” Yracheta told me. “Is
there a cure for HIV or hepatitis in some variant that only we have? The
danger is that we give this data up and it doesn’t benefit the people it
comes from.”
THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 13
 In July 2019, Tsosie and Yracheta published an article in Nature
Reviews Genetics questioning All of Us’s consent procedures. The
individual-based informed consent model that was used to recruit tribal
members who lived off tribal land, they argued, failed to acknowledge
that the individual genomic information of a person from a small tribe
can be used as a representative sample to make statistical inferences
about the whole community. The tribal consultations were, for Tsosie
and Yracheta, too little, too late. “If respecting tribal sovereignty were so
important,” Tsosie wrote to me in an email, “one would think this type of
consultation would have occurred prior to recruiting Indigenous individ-
uals.”
That August, Begay, who followed the conversation around All of Us
with interest, attended one of the tribal consultation sessions at a federal
office building in downtown Denver. Tribal leaders from nearby regions
sat around a rectangular desk in the middle of the room, while Devaney,
who oversaw the tribal consultation process, went through slides that
explained the benefits of precision medicine for minority communities.
In the previous months, Devaney had visited several tribal communi-
ties across the country to listen to tribal leaders’ key concerns about
participating. In one consultation, a tribal leader told Devaney of an
experience where a local environmental agency had come onto his land
and taken blood samples from children to test for lead poisoning after
apparent contamination. He had allowed this to happen because he was
assured that the research would benefit his people and that the samples
would one day be returned. Yet they were never given back. “He was
talking about his community in a very emotional way,” Devaney told me.
“From his perspective, his samples were part of the children in his
community.”
Devaney understood that part of her job would be building trust that
had understandably eroded. After her presentation in Denver, leaders
were invited to ask questions. The most pressing concern, Begay told me,
was what was going to be done to the collected DNA. Some worried that it
would be used to study taboo or stigmatizing topics, such as inbreeding
and alcoholism. Others worried it might be used to disprove Native
American creation stories. Devaney listened patiently, then explained
that the All of Us program was not using the data to conduct any studies of
their own, but were more like custodians. Researchers would be able to
approach them and request access to the data to do their own studies.
Begay felt the atmosphere in the room turn. “The idea of taking DNA,
not knowing what it is going to be used for, touched upon a lot of the fears
that we have as Native Americans,” she said. “Like our blood is going to be
mined for someone else’s benefit and that we will have no say in it.”
Still, while she understood the suspicion toward the federal study, she
also acknowledged that it could lead to significant medical insight. “I’m
all for protecting our sovereignty,” Begay said. “But at the same time, we
have so many people who need help, and this type of research might one
day be a tool to help make life better.”
I n the coming years, Begay might play an important role in assisting the
Navajo Nation with formulating research policy around genetics that
would allow them to reconsider the moratorium. She currently sits on a
working group that is tasked with advising tribal agencies on the matter.
At the beginning of our road trip, she requested that I not ask her
questions relating directly to the moratorium. The details are confiden-
tial, she said, and the conversation evolving. But she did invite me to
speak to her family members.
Opinions were varied. Begay’s cousin, who served in the Marines, saw
participation in genetic research as a type of civic duty. “To serve and
contribute has always been in our culture and is part of our social belief,”
he said. Her uncle held a similar perspective.
Her mother’s position was different. During her 30 years as a nurse,
she said, the most effective interventions in Navajo health that she’s seen
are those that find a balance between traditional healing and modern
14 NOVEMBER 29, 2020
“I’m all for protecting
our sovereignty,”
Begay said. “But at the
same time, we have so
many people who need
help, and this type of
research might one
day be a tool to help
make life better.”
medicine. Large-scale genetic studies like All of Us, she believes, are too
alien from the culture. “Navajo believe that you are made in a holy way.
Whatever parts that you’re born with, so you should be put in the ground,”
she said. “The resistance to genetic testing comes from this.”
What united Begay’s family was the question of benefit: Since the very
first interactions between the Navajo and the U.S. government, the tribe
has made sacrifices for the country based on the promise of mutual
benefit, which has not been forthcoming. They all wondered, at some
level, whether genetic research would be the same.
The spectacular ranges of Navajo sandstone that Begay and I drove
through together stand as a constant reminder of why this question
remains so sensitive. Between 1944 and 1986, millions of tons of uranium
ore were mined from this multicolored earth. Families from across the
reservation flocked to mine sites and open pits, often on horseback, where
the men toiled in poorly ventilated mines for as little as 81 cents an hour.
The endless extraction was sold to the tribe as an economic opportu-
nity. Yet, while mine owners grew rich, the new industry was killing the
Navajo. By the 1980s, the long-term health effects of uranium mining
were undeniable. Lung cancer was contracted by miners at a rate 56 times
higher than the national average. Rates for liver cancer were more than
PHOTO: RENE BEGAY
200 times the national average. Mining families had higher rates of
diabetes, kidney disease and, perhaps most disturbing, a rare neuropath-
ic disease that caused liver damage, dimmed vision, deformations of the
hands and feet, and a life expectancy of around 10 years.
In the 1990s, when the Indian Health Service studied the cause of
Navajo neuropathy, they prioritized searching for a genetic cause.
Without screening patients for exposure to uranium, the epidemiologist
leading the study concluded that the most probable cause of the disease
was a DNA change unique to the Navajo — an “inborn error” of the
metabolism.
Some studies conducted since suggest that the neuropathy is, at least
in part, genetic. But by offering this genetic explanation without also
examining the particular environmental history, blame shifted from the
mine owners, the Environmental Protection Agency and Congress — all
of whom had failed to clean up the mess the uranium extraction left
behind — and ended up in the DNA of the Navajo people. The memory of
this injury, which is inscribed in the land and the bodies of the Navajo,
lingers. “This is why we have the moratorium,” Begay says. “Over time, we
have learned that we need to look after ourselves.”
W hile the Navajo Nation’s debate about the potential benefit of
genetic medicine is tied to its particular history, it is a conversation
that is taking place more broadly, too. In recent years, a coalition of
medical dissenters has cast doubts on precision medicine’s ability to
deliver better health across the board. The primary concern is that this
approach pursues a narrow, genetic hypothesis for disease, meaning
social and environmental causes are overlooked.
“What we’ve learned over the past 20 or so years is that the vast source
of risk for common disease has nothing whatsoever to do with genetic
predisposition and everything to do with what you eat and smoke and
where you’re born,” Richard S. Cooper, chair of the department of public
health sciences at Loyola University, told me. “If you have a rare familial
syndrome, genetics is important. But for the 99 percent garden-variety
diseases that affect most of us, it’s just not relevant.”
According to Devaney, All of Us acknowledges that the causes of
disease do not lie entirely in our genome, which is why the initiative is
seeking to collect not just biospecimens, but also in-depth lifestyle data,
and it hopes to get access to electronic health records. “While the genome
is really important to us, we do our best to emphasize all of the other data
types,” she says.
Nevertheless, All of Us’s underlying motivation is still to improve
personalized care — to collect and analyze data in order to tailor
treatments that target our individual differences. While this is a compel-
ling vision, Sandro Galea, dean at the Boston University School of Public
Health, told me that it has led to divestment from public health initiatives
that seek to prevent disease by addressing broader social causes rather
than individual biology. Indeed, as genome research has expanded,
NIH-funded projects with the words “public” or “population” have
dropped by 90 percent. “This shift in medical priorities has been a
disaster,” Galea says. “The underlying cause of these diseases that are
affecting the population — addiction, suicide, heart disease, diabetes,
obesity — have nothing to do with a person’s biology.”
In the weeks after my trip with Begay, as a novel coronavirus tore
across the country, this idea was highlighted with alarming clarity. The
pandemic, which was initially framed as a great equalizer, ended up
accentuating pre-existing health disparities. The disproportionate dis-
ease burden was, and continues to be, borne by racial and ethnic
minorities, none more so than the Navajo. By the middle of June, the
Navajo Nation had 322 confirmed deaths, a rate of 177 deaths per
100,000 people, higher than any other state.
Amid the pandemic, All of Us paused in-person enrollment and
postponed releasing its findings from the tribal consultations carried out
in 2019. It expects to release the final consultation report early next year.
A view of Fish Point on the Navajo Nation in
Arizona. The area is commonly known as Tselani
(Salina Springs, Ariz.).
Devaney acknowledges that the program made some initial missteps
with tribal outreach and regrets recruiting before the tribal consultation
was concluded. For now, the program has committed to not releasing any
data about self-identified Native American participants to researchers
without agreement from specific tribal nations. “What I’m hoping is that
by doing this in a really thoughtful way now, and being really true to
process and being really transparent, that we can rebuild some of that
trust,” Devaney says.
She remains optimistic about the role All of Us can play in engaging
underserved communities and eventually in making sense of the uneven
spread of the virus. This is a view shared by the NIH director, Francis
Collins, who published a blog post on the NIH website titled “Genes,
Blood Type Tied to Risk of Severe COVID-19.” In it, Collins proposes that
part of why covid affects people so differently “may be found in the genes
that each one of us carries.”
Genetics has a role to play during the pandemic, of course: It helps
scientists understand the biology of the virus, which is crucial for
developing antibody testing and vaccines. But genes likely have little to
do with why the Navajo have been many times more likely to be infected
and die because of the virus than those in neighboring states. Much more
obvious explanations are incomplete plumbing, electricity and Internet
access on the reservation, which are critical to defending against spread,
and high rates of underlying conditions like diabetes and obesity, which
have been ignored because of decades of insufficient Indian Health
Service budgets.
Begay and her husband, Donovan, who also grew up on the reserva-
tion, have watched the virus spread across the Navajo Nation from
Denver, where they live with their two dogs. In late April, Begay’s aunt
and uncle tested positive and were hospitalized with complications from
the infection. They recovered, but then almost immediately after, Begay’s
mother, who has been working on the front lines as a nurse at Chinle
Comprehensive Health Care Facility, woke up one morning with aches
and a fever. “She called me and told me that she had been diagnosed,”
Begay told me over the phone in June. “I am doing my best to support her,
but it is difficult to be so far away.” (Her mother has recovered.)
Begay and her husband plan to move back to the reservation eventual-
ly, but first they have to finish their studies. Donovan is nearing the end of
his veterinary science program, and Begay was recently accepted into a
master of public health program at Johns Hopkins University on a full
scholarship. Next year, she will apply for medical school. Her dream is to
open a clinic on the reservation that combines biomedical research,
public health and traditional approaches to medicine.
Since the initial outbreak, the Navajo Nation has managed to bring
the virus under control on its sovereign lands. Public health guidelines
issued by the Navajo government have been assiduously followed. At a
virtual town hall in September, Anthony Fauci congratulated the Navajo
Nation. “You have done things extraordinarily well, and when I go out
and plead with the rest of the nation, I will actually bring up the example
of the success of what the Navajo Nation has been able to do,” he said.
For Begay, this is further evidence of Navajo courage and tenacity. “I
feel proud, but it has been hard to be so far away,” she says. Begay and her
husband say prayers together in the morning, facing the white line on the
horizon at dawn where the sun rises, the direction toward which she ran
as a young girl. “It reminds us,” she says, “that we’re still connected.”
Oscar Schwartz is a writer in New York.
THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 15
 B R A Z I L’ S This duo of photographers
is pushing to have the
country’s diversity reflected

TRUE COLORS
in the marketplace.

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY MARCOS FLORENTINO AND KELVIN YULE

16
 T
o talk about our work and about
ourselves, we need to talk about
where we came from, because
that is a fundamental part of who
we are and who we are becoming.
Talking about origins is important, especially
in this world with globalized ideas and ideals,
where being different is showing the most
intimate part of you in the simplest and most
poetic way possible.
The Brazilian northeast is one of the
richest regions that anyone should have the
pleasure of visiting, and by that we mean the
people themselves: all the affection and hu-
man warmth, but mainly the culture. The
culture is a reflection of our greatest ambi-
tions, desires and even our frustrations. But,
like everything around us, the culture is
constantly changing. And our work is shaped
by these changes. We trust these natural
processes, and we face these transformations
with great respect.
When we joined our visions as MAR+VIN
in 2016 and started being part of the Brazilian
fashion market, one of our main goals was to
make fashion a less oppressive, less racist, less
classist place. Although we have made prog-
ress in some areas, such as the inclusion of
Black people and LGBTQIA+ people in edito-
rial shoots and advertising campaigns, we
understand that there are deep discussions to
be had about how this supposed “democrati-
zation” of fashion has been happening. Sadly,
many brands use these discussions shallowly
and are motivated by purely commercial
reasons because they otherwise fear retalia-
tion.
A few years ago, it was much more difficult
for us to create any material for a magazine or
advertisement that was mostly Black, even
though self-declared Black Brazilians make These pages clockwise
up more than half of our country. We are, from top left:
however, already experiencing some changes Photographs taken for
in this area, and there is a growing wave of Sebrae SPFW Day; for
creative minds in the market belonging to Angela Brito; for Matri
people of color — not only in front of the Label. Previous pages:
cameras, but behind as well. A photograph taken for
The challenges we face are many — im- Giuliana Romanno for
posed by our government and its irresponsible Vogue Brazil.
and genocidal policies — especially at this
critical time when we should be united and
focused on the well-being of all citizens. What
moves us is knowing there is still a lot of work
to be done. We hope we can continue to inspire
people, and with this bring something positive
to the world.

MAR+VIN is a duo of fashion photographers

formed by Marcos Florentino and Kelvin Yule in
2016. Based in Sao Paulo, the two have gained
prominence with a photographic language
exploring roots, Blackness and reconstruction of
the image of beauty in the 21st century.

18 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 19

 Far left from top: Photographs taken for Roro
Rewind and Giuliana Romanno for Vogue Brazil.
Center and above: Photographs taken for Stories
Collective.

20 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 21

 Clockwise from far left: Photographs taken for
Giuliana Romanno for Vogue Brazil; Este Paper;
Marie Claire Brazil; Emannuelle Junqueira.

22 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 23

 This page from top: Chef Bryan Voltaggio; halibut
Dining WITH TOM SIETSEMA Unrated during the pandemic
with sungold tomato curry broth.

THACHER & RYE 228 N. Market St., Frederick, Md. 240-332-3186. thacherandrye.com. Open: Dinner takeout, inside and outdoor
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seafood tower), main courses $18 to $49. No delivery. Accessibility: Wheelchair users can access the inside from a ramp in the codes negated paper menus and utensils were brought out on trays for
rear of the restaurant, which has ADA-compliant restrooms, and the patio from a walkway.
us to help ourselves.
A server asked us to place our entire order at the same time “for a
seamless dining experience” — a once-common phrase that put a chef’s
interests ahead of customers, but now feels like a reasonable response
to the times. The number of selections and courses (four, not including
a category called “for the table”) felt like throwbacks, too. Come to
think of it, wasn’t I making jokes about the ubiquity of tuna tartare
seemingly forever? But there the fish dish is at Thacher & Rye, and
there I was, enjoying a rosy circle of lush raw yellowfin tuna in a
shimmering moat of grapefruit ponzu. Minced chives carpeted part of
the crudo, served with sesame lavash for scooping.
The only first course to evoke Volt is a salad of fall vegetables, sweet
figs, peanuts and buttermilk dressing garnished with avocado “frost,”
which is what happens when you puree the fruit with lime and salt,
freeze it with liquid nitrogen and turn it into powder. Otherwise, the
appetizers represent Voltaggio’s hoped-for familiarity. Gulf shrimp
dusted with zesty Old Bay and served with a dunk of horseradish aioli
makes for a distinctive shrimp cocktail, and a little jar of duck rillettes
dropped off with pickled vegetables is headier with the addition of
tender herbed buttermilk biscuits.
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24 NOVEMBER 29, 2020
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Washington’s Conrad hotel, prompts me to inquire about Voltaggio’s Guests dine in the
D.C. restaurant. The chef says he and his brother, Michael, remain tented area on the
partners in the project, which is temporarily shuttered but expected to patio of Thacher & Rye
reopen at some point. For Thacher & Rye, the puffer fish are seasoned in Frederick, Md.
with barbecue spices and dappled with a sambal fueled in part with
fish peppers, sorghum and red wine vinegar. Love the crunch. Love the
fencing match between sweet and tang. Love the plating. Alongside the
posh fish sticks sits a tiny green tower of sliced dill pickles.
Every pasta I’ve tried has something lovely to recommend it.
Lasagna is many fine layers — “21” by my server’s count — tiered with
smoked brisket Bolognese and ricotta fondue. The petite portion and
execution render it light and elegant, and when’s the last time anyone
said that about lasagna? Housemade ravioli stuffed with goat cheese
and finished with toasted pumpkin seeds and squash oil captures fall in
every morsel. Spaghetti in a deep yellow sungold tomato sauce with
filings of Parmesan is simple and satisfying, a suggestion of Italy.
You can order a burger here, but you probably didn’t drive this far
for something you can fix at home, or get for less than $18 elsewhere.
As with appetizers, fish is a strong suit among entrees. Delicate fluke
takes well to lemon brown butter and capers, in addition to a side dish
of stinging collard greens and kale. More beautiful is halibut lounging
in a pool of sungold tomato and curry broth. Count on the roast
chicken to impress you, too, as much for the surprise of Brussels
sprouts kimchi and brown rice congee nearby as the organic brined
centerpiece. The food might not be as manipulated as at Volt, but the Curry powder gives the almond streusel a pleasant savory quality.
kitchen’s skilled technique is everywhere. Voltaggio’s right-hand man November saw a heated white tent go up on the patio and a
here is Dan Kennedy, who served as chef de cuisine at Estuary. restaurant experimenting with how to fuse safety and comfort.
My companions’ eyes widen at the sight of plates of fries and bread Voltaggio assures me that the four canvas walls I encountered — the
going to other tables. Okay, okay, I get the hint. The golden, thrice- picture of a fully enclosed room, defeating the purpose of being outside
fried french fries are meant to evoke the boardwalk, and the spent- — were a temporary situation. Experience and feedback have resulted
grain bread, served warm and quartered, comes with a spread of in a tent with removable panels for better ventilation. I’m further
smoked trout as well as whipped butter. Life is short; order both. comforted by the egg timers the servers use to time disinfecting
A choice of three desserts seems to be the norm these days. The procedures between seatings.
restaurant’s trio rely on an autumnal palette of orange (pumpkin Volt enjoyed a long and admirable run. While Voltaggio says closing
cheesecake) and brown (sticky toffee cake and chocolate-caramel it was “the hardest decision I’ve had to make,” he knows that Thacher &
mousse). The cheesecake takes the prize for novelty, served as a shallow Rye is a restaurant better suited to a pandemic.
round, tangy with goat cheese, crowned with Concord grape sorbet and Might Volt return in better times? Voltaggio feels optimistic about
garnished with what tastes like granola that earned a master’s degree. the prospect. Proof, please? “The sign is downstairs in our office.”

KEY TO THE PREVIOUS SECOND GLANCE NOV. 22 SOLUTION TO PUZZLE: “DARK SECRETS,” NOV. 22

1. Extended 0 $ 0 % $ 0 , 0 2 6 $ 6 6 7 $ 0 3
2. More paint $ 5 , ( 6 3 ( & $ 1 3 , ( 6 7 2 1 ( 5
3. Blue handle 5 , 7 ( 6 ( / ( & 7 2 5 $ / ( 5 $ 7 2
& $ 7 5 ( 1 ( ( + 2 7 / $ 5 5 < / $ %
4. No razor $ / , 7 < 3 ( % 2 3 6 / ( 9 ( ( ( 9 $
5. Turned 0 , 1 8 6 ( 6 2 0 $ + $ 6 & 2 2 7 ( 5
6. Taller top 3 ( * 6 2 5 ( * $ 1 2 ) 2 5 (
6 1 ( ( 5 6 $ 1 * ( / 2 8 ' ( 1 1 < 6
7. Upside down 6 $ 7 , 5 ( $ 5 7 / , . ( 6 2
8. Missing ear piece % 5 8 7 8 6 $ 7 $ 5 , / $ 7 7 ( 6
9. Extra bar & 5 2 3 6 , 1 1 2 & ( 1 & ( + ( 1 & (
5 2 2 2 / ' ( / ( 1 $ 3 6 ( 7 $ 5
10. Shorter bottle ( 2 1 1 2 5 $ / 6 ' 6 7 , 5 5 1 $
11. Lowered stripe ( . ( ' & 2 7 7 2 1 : ( 7 6
12. Missing shadow . ( < $ % 8 2 ) ) % $ 6 ( * 2 2 ( < (
, 0 $ 0 ( 6 6 2 / , 9 ( $ / 8 1 6 ( 5
/ $ : ( 7 & 5 2 * ( 5 + ( 5 7 $ 2
/ , 1 ( 7 , 6 ' : $ 5 ) * $ 6 + $ 5 '
6 / , 9 ( 5 7 2 ( 1 $ , / % ( ( 7 / (
6 1 , ' ( 8 1 1 ( 5 9 ( $ / / ( <
* / 8 ( % ( 7 : ( ( 1 5 , 3 6

The secret words all follow the word BLACK, and

their first letters, in order, spell CLOAKED.

26 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 PHOTOS: RESTAURANT BY DEB LINDSEY; ORIGINAL SECOND GLANCE PHOTO BY WASHINGTON POST READER DOUG DEMBLING
 Second Glance

Bronze
and clay
BY RANDY MAYS

Find the 12 differences

in the photo of an art
studio in Chevy Chase,
Md., in July with bronze
and clay models of the
photographer’s
granddaughters.

PUZZLE ANSWERS
See them online now at
washingtonpost.com/
secondglance or in next
week’s issue of the
magazine.

SEE YOUR PHOTO

To submit a photo of the
Washington area for use
in Second Glance, email
a high-resolution jpeg
attachment of 8
megapixels or larger to
secondglance@washpost.
com. For information
about our guidelines for
user content, see
washingtonpost.com/
secondglance.

PHOTO: WASHINGTON POST READER BRENDAN O’NEILL THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 27
Crossword “I DIDN’T HEAR THAT” BY EVAN BIRNHOLZ

ACROSS 77 Change the world a little                

1 The “stone of heaven,” bit at a time?
    
in Chinese lore 84 Field goal attempt’s path
5 9, in dates: Abbr. 85 Music genre for Mighty    
9 “___ just in” (start of a Sparrow and Lord Invader
     
news alert) 87 Setting of the 2011 film
13 Opposite of occupied “Soul Surfer”       
17 Vicinity 88 “Yuh-huh!”
     
18 “Pacific Rim” actor Elba 90 Gazes creepily
20 Head fake in basketball, 91 Surveillance tool    
e.g. 93 Computer programmer
21 Face covering and activist Swartz          

22 Spray seen at 68 Down 94 Party in Portland, e.g.?   

23 Northern locale ruled by 97 “You mean the 31st U.S.
bearded folklore beings? president? Blast!”?     

25 Some Thanksgiving 100 Poetic palindrome         

leftovers 101 One claiming to be above
26 “Jurassic Park” star the unwashed masses         

Neill 102 Yields, as dividends     

27 Show appreciation for 103 Co. founder, often
a poet 104 “Family” star Thompson    
28 Molecule involved in 106 Rise up, say      
gene regulation 109 Grammy-winning Count
29 Opposite of a fire 111 Simple Minds singer Jim    
extinguisher? 112 Proverb espousing the
       
31 Female deer or rabbit virtue of staying quiet,
32 ___ Winston (Ryan and a hint to a word    
Hurst’s role on “Sons spelled out by six letters
       
of Anarchy”) in this puzzle
34 Like many debunked 116 Retailer whose system   
conspiracy theories of moving stock around
  
37 Author Bombeck or its stores is known as a
singer Franklin “treasure hunt” strategy
39 Offspring from the 119 Tales of the ___ Nights 8 Tiny ___ (boy in “A 36 Phrase represented 58 60 percent of V 95 Include, as in a mailing
deified composer Frank? (board game) Christmas Carol”) online as 63 Red, in Madrid 96 Relative of a hamster
45 Roman moon deity 120 Trashed, as a reputation 9 Mad Hatter’s brew 38 Bespectacled boss of 64 Teaching assistant’s 98 Colorado ski resort
46 Game manager, briefly 124 Loves a lot 10 Fast, as in tech products Fred Flintstone email address ender that’s a homophone of
47 Witness stand assent 125 Like “The Princess Bride” 11 Pac-Man ghost that’s 39 Show appreciation for a 65 Hawaiian floral band 21 Across
48 Dress that the historian 126 Mixed martial artist Brian light blue, not black as musician 66 Competed 99 Lubricating dose
Rta Kapur Chishti 127 State for one who’s its name suggests 40 “Les Misérables” author 67 Workers’ earnings applied with a lid open
called the “magical lying? 12 Gazes Victor 68 Falls for many tourists 105 Space City baseball pro
unstitched garment” 128 “Beauty is an attitude” 13 Flora on some walls 41 Busy hosp. spaces 69 Counted up, as votes 107 “How I Wish” singer
49 Ideological programs speaker Lauder 14 1991 Kenneth Branagh- 42 Lawn repair supply 73 Unpleasant job routine Carmen
52 Three-tone chord 129 After the procedure Emma Thompson film 43 Global ___ Vault 74 One cleaning boxers? 108 What cardiologists hear
56 Small ornamental mats that features a hypnosis (doomsday vault built 75 Pioneering member of 109 Back of a 45 record
59 Marsupial seen in North DOWN technique known as in Norway to protect the Supreme Court 110 Visibly stunned
America 1 Xerox machine problems past life regression Nabisco cookies from an 77 Semicircular recesses 111 Heals, as a broken bone
60 Like idiomatic cannons 2 Piece heard at La Scala 15 Prom night ride asteroid ... yes, it’s true) 78 Largest organ of the 113 ___ over (freezes up)
61 Keepers of the keys? 3 Midwestern locale of the 16 “If all ___ fails ...” 44 ___ track (insulting human body 114 “Mm-hmm, ri-i-i-ight”
62 Statement about a place test garden run by Better 19 Typeface decoration recording) 79 Like gooseberries 115 Money at a French cafe
where two people share Homes & Gardens 20 Swing in a frenzied way 50 “It was right in front of 80 Take to court 116 Big game show prize
something equally? 4 Grab a snack 24 “Milkman” author Burns me all along!” 81 Swearing in court 117 Uplifting work
67 Avid about 5 Document endorser 27 Sketch comedy 51 Alters, as legislation 82 “Sayonara,” in Siena 118 Piece of dunked bread
70 Nonverbal greeting 6 Pulitzer winner ___ St. performer Caesar 53 Marsupial seen in 83 Presidential term’s four 121 Cargo ___ (obstacle
71 Artikel article Vincent Millay 30 Raw part of a lode Australia, for short 86 Intense urge course feature, often)
72 As a result 7 Fuel for products sold by 33 Makes arrangements 54 Card player’s marker 89 Emotionally blue 122 It may be inflated on a
76 “Love Jones” actress Hank Hill on “King of the such that one may 55 Burnt log remnant 91 Zoom lecture, say movie set
Long Hill” 35 At a low volume 57 Not ruling out 92 Train track, e.g.? 123 Fist bump

28 NOVEMBER 29, 2020 FOR THE SOLUTION TO LAST WEEK’S PUZZLE, SEE PAGE 26. ONLINE: CLASSIC MERL REAGLE PUZZLES AT WAPO.ST/CLASSIC-MERL.
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 BY GENE WEINGARTEN Below the Beltway

YWZZQQSF

He had a dream

T
here is a rough consensus among political journalists that
Donald Trump’s second term, had he had one, would have
been absolutely nutso: that in his lame-duck years, he
would have been freed to do whatever he wanted, limited
only by his innate sense of proportion and decency, ha-ha. Here are
some thoughts on where he might have gone.

Dr. Fauci demoted to hospital candy striper.

All persons wearing masks will be presumed to be bank robbers

and shot on sight.

Kushner is named to all Cabinet positions, as well as surgeon

general and chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

Fox News is seized by the government for its drift to the left and
renamed Foxier News, featuring Hope Hicks and Ivanka.

Norway becomes the 51st state.

Two walls are built to separate both coasts from “real America.”
Donald Trump’s second
term, had he had one,
The Education Department orders all schools to stop giving tests
so that fewer American kids will be dumb.
would have been
absolutely nutso.
The Food and Drug Administration declares that all steaks must
be cooked to the consistency of the heel of a man’s shoe. Also,
hamburgers are now, officially, hamberders.

No more taco trucks. Only trucks serving lard sandwiches on

Wonder Bread.

Backyard fracking becomes a thing.
Census now requires women to rate themselves on a scale of 1-10.
Using his executive powers, Trump “hereby decrees” that he has
completed the first all-hole-in-one round of golf in history at Mar-a-
Lago, including that tricky par 5 on the back nine.
Nothing is sacred anymore. All rules of decency are suspended.
Pence is seen having lunch alone with Deborah Birx.
Einstein visas are eliminated, replaced with Miss Universe visas.
The National Institute of Standards and Technology recalibrates
weights and measures so Trump is 7-foot-4 and 140 pounds.
“Covfefe” is included in every dictionary. It refers in general to “the
intrinsic badness of Mexicans.”
Muslims can pray, but they can’t face Mecca; they have to face the
White House.
New presidential proclamation: “War is peace. Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength. Also, there will be FOUR minutes of Hate per
day.”
Thanks to: Kathleen Giotta Delano, Valerie Holt, Lee Graham, Arthur Adams,
Warren Uhler, Frank Kohn, Roger Dalrymple, Robyn Carlson, Julianne Berkon
Weiner, Tom Logan and Thor Rudebeck. Email Gene Weingarten at
gene.weingarten@washpost.com. Find chats and updates at wapo.st/
magazine.

ILLUSTRATION: ALEX FINE THE WASHINGTON POST MAGAZINE 29

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