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Tag: average person

  • Commentary: Payback? Power grab? Proposition 50 is California’s political ink-blot test

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    When it comes to Proposition 50, Marcia Owens is a bit fuzzy on the details.

    She knows, vaguely, it has something to do with how California draws the boundaries for its 52 congressional districts, a convoluted and arcane process that’s not exactly top of the mind for your average person. But Owens is abundantly clear when it comes to her intent in Tuesday’s special election.

    “I’m voting to take power out of Trump’s hands and put it back in the hands of the people,” said Owens, 48, a vocational nurse in Riverside. “He’s making a lot of illogical decisions that are really wreaking havoc on our country. He’s not putting our interests first, making sure that an individual has food on the table, they can pay their rent, pay electric bills, pay for healthcare.”

    Peter Arensburger, a fellow Democrat who also lives in Riverside, was blunter still.

    President Trump, said the 55-year-old college professor, “is trying to rule as a dictator” and Republicans are doing absolutely nothing to stop him.

    So, Arensburger said, California voters will do it for them.

    Or at least try.

    “It’s a false equivalency,” he said, “to say that we need to do everything on an even keel in California, but Texas” — which redrew its political map to boost Republicans — “can do whatever they want.”

    Proposition 50, which aims to deliver Democrats at least five more House seats in the 2026 midterm election, is either righteous payback or a grubby power grab.

    A reasoned attempt to even things out in response to Texas’ attempt to nab five more congressional seats. Or a ruthless gambit to drive the California GOP to near-extinction.

    It all depends on your perspective.

    Above all, Proposition 50 has become a political ink-blot test; what many California voters see depends on, politically, where they stand.

    Mary Ann Rounsavall thinks the measure is “horrible,” because that’s how the Fontana retiree feels about its chief proponent, Gavin Newsom.

    “He’s a jerk,” the 75-year-old Republican fairly spat, as if the act of forming the governor’s name left a bad taste in her mouth. “No one believes anything he says.”

    Timothy, a fellow Republican who withheld his last name to avoid online trolls, echoed the sentiment.

    “It’s just Gavin Newsom playing political games,” said the 39-year-old warehouse manager, who commutes from West Covina to his job at a plumbing supplier in Ontario. “They always talk about Trump. ‘Trump, Trump, Trump.’ Get off of Trump. I’ve been hearing this crap ever since he started running.”

    Riverside and San Bernardino counties form the heart of the Inland Empire. The next-door neighbors are politically purple: more Republican than the state as a whole, but not as conservative as California’s more rural reaches. That means neither party has an upper hand, a parity reflected in dozens of interviews with voters across the sprawling region.

    On a recent smoggy morning, the hulking San Bernardino Mountains veiled by a gray-brown haze, Eric Lawson paused to offer his thoughts.

    The 66-year-old independent has no use for politicians of any stripe. “They’re all crooks,” he said. “All of them.”

    Lawson called Proposition 50 a waste of time and money.

    Gerrymandering — the dark art of drawing political lines to benefit one party over another — is, as he pointed out, hardly new. (In fact, the term is rooted in the name of Elbridge Gerry, one of the nation’s founders.)

    What has Lawson particularly steamed is the cost of “this stupid election,” which is pushing $300 million.

    “We talk and talk and talk and we print money for all this talk,” said Lawson, who lives in Ontario and consults in the auto industry. “But that money doesn’t go where it’s supposed to go.”

    Although sentiments were evenly split in those several dozen conversations, all indications suggest that Proposition 50 is headed toward passage Tuesday, possibly by a wide margin. After raising a tidal wave of cash, Newsom last week told small donors that’s enough, thanks. The opposition has all but given up and resigned itself to defeat.

    It comes down to math. Proposition 50 has become a test of party muscle and a talisman of partisan faith and California has a lot more Democrats and Democrat-leaning independents than Republicans and GOP-leaning independents.

    Andrea Fisher, who opposes the initiative, is well aware of that fact. “I’m a conservative,” she said, “in a state that’s not very conservative.”

    She has come to accept that reality, but fears things will get worse if Democrats have their way and slash California’s already-scanty Republican ranks on Capitol Hill. Among those targeted for ouster is Ken Calvert, a 16-term GOP incumbent who represents a good slice of Riverside County.

    “I feel like it’s going to eliminate my voice,” said Fisher, 48, a food server at her daughter’s school in Riverside. “If I’m 40% of the vote” — roughly the percentage Trump received statewide in 2024 — “then we in that population should have fair representation. We’re still their constituents.” (In Riverside County, Trump edged Kamala Harris 49% to 48%.)

    Amber Pelland says Proposition 50 will hurt voters by putting redistricting back into the hands of politicians.

    (Allen J. Schaben/Los Angeles Times)

    Amber Pelland, 46, who works in the nonprofit field in Corona, feels by “sticking it to Trump” — a tagline in one of the TV ads supporting Proposition 50 — voters will be sticking it to themselves. Passage would erase the political map drawn by an independent commission, which voters empowered in 2010 for the express purpose of wrestling redistricting away from self-dealing lawmakers in Washington and Sacramento.

    “I don’t care if you hate the person or don’t hate the person,” said Pelland, a Republican who backs the president. “It’s just going to hurt voters by taking the power away from the people.”

    Even some backers of Proposition 50 flinched at the notion of sidelining the redistricting commission and undoing its painstaking, nonpartisan work. What helps make it palatable, they said, is the requirement — written into the ballot measure — that congressional redistricting will revert to the commission after the 2030 census, when California’s next set of congressional maps is due to be drafted.

    “I’m glad that it’s temporary because I don’t think redistricting should be done in order to give one political party greater power over another,” said Carole, a Riverside Democrat. “I think it’s something that should be decided over a long period and not in a rush.” (She also withheld her last name so her husband, who serves in the community, wouldn’t be hassled for her opinion.)

    Texas, Carole suggested, has forced California to act because of its extreme action, redistricting at mid-decade at Trump’s command. “It’s important to think about the country as a whole,” said the 51-year-old academic researcher, “and to respond to what’s being done, especially with the pressure coming from the White House.”

    Felise Self-Visnic, a 71-year-old retired schoolteacher, agreed.

    She was shopping at a Trader Joe’s in Riverside in an orange ball cap that read “Human-Kind (Be Both).” Back home, in her garage-door window, is a poster that reads “No Kings.”

    She described Proposition 50 as a stopgap measure that will return power to the commission once the urgency of today’s political upheaval has passed. But even if that wasn’t the case, the Democrat said, she would still vote in favor.

    “Anything,” Self-Visnic said, “to fight fascism, which is where we’re heading.”

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    Mark Z. Barabak

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  • The ‘Unthinkable’ New Reality About Bedbugs

    The ‘Unthinkable’ New Reality About Bedbugs

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    This article was originally published by Knowable Magazine.

    The stories have become horribly familiar: houses so overrun by bedbugs that the bloodsucking insects pile an inch deep on the floor. An airport shutting down gates for deep cleaning after the parasites were spotted. Fear and loathing during Fashion Week 2023 in Paris, with bedbug-detection dogs working overtime when the insects turned up in movie theaters and trains.

    For reasons that almost certainly have to do with global travel and poor pest management, bedbugs have resurfaced with a vengeance in 50 countries since the late 1990s. But recently, the resurgence has brought an added twist: When exterminators swarm out to hunt these pests, they might encounter not just one but two different kinds of bugs.

    Besides the common bedbug, Cimex lectularius, which has always made its home in the Northern Hemisphere, there are now sightings of its relative, the tropical bedbug, Cimex hemipterus, in temperate regions. Historically, this species didn’t venture that far from the equator, write the entomologists Stephen Doggett and Chow-Yang Lee in the 2023 issue of the Annual Review of Entomology. But in recent years, tropical bedbugs have turned up in the United States, Sweden, Italy, Norway, Finland, China, Japan, France, Central Europe, Spain—“even in Russia, which would have once been unthinkable,” says Lee, a professor of urban entomology at UC Riverside.

    Like the common bedbug, the tropical version has grown resistant to many standard pesticides—to the point where some experts say they wouldn’t bother spraying should their own home become infested. It has been estimated that the fight against bedbugs is costing the world economy billions annually.

    This all adds up to a sobering new reality: For many people, bedbugs are becoming a fact of life again, much as they used to be throughout humanity’s history. But as scientists race to find new strategies to combat these pests—everything from microfabricated surfaces that entrap the insects to fungal spores that invade and kill them—they also learn more about the often-bizarre biology of bedbugs, which might one day reveal the parasite’s Achilles’ heel.

    Genomics shows that bedbugs emerged 115 million years ago, before the dinosaurs went extinct. When the first humans appeared and moved into caves, the ancestors of today’s bedbugs were ready and waiting. It is thought that these insects initially fed on bats. But bats reduce their blood circulation during their sleeplike torpor state, likely making it harder for the bloodsucking parasite to feed. Presumably, then, at least some bedbug ancestors happily switched to humans.

    Since then, the bugs have followed humankind across the globe, tagging along on ancient shipping routes and modern plane rides. Preserved bedbugs were found in the quarters used by workers in ancient Egypt some 3,550 years ago.

    Bedbugs can survive a year or more without feeding. About as big as flattened apple seeds, they squeeze into tiny cracks in walls or in the joints of bed frames during the day; they crawl out at night, attracted by a sleeper’s exhaled carbon dioxide and body warmth. At the turn of the 20th century, an estimated 75 percent of homes in the U.K. contained bedbugs. Bizarre prescriptions for remedies have circulated down the years, including a recipe for “cat juice” in a pest-control guide from 1725. The formula called for suffocating and skinning a cat, roasting it on a spit, mixing the drippings with egg yolk and oil, and smearing the concoction into crevices around the bed.

    DDT (dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane) and the pesticides that followed helped bring a few decades’ worth of respite from the 1940s to the 1990s—enough that most people forgot about the insects and didn’t recognize them when they reappeared around the turn of the millennium.

    Doggett and Lee hypothesize that the bloodsuckers’ comeback started in areas of Africa, where common and tropical bedbugs naturally coexist, and where DDT (and, later, other insecticides) were sprayed in bedrooms against malaria-carrying mosquitoes. Initially, this would have killed the majority of bed bugs too. But some resistant ones survived and multiplied.

    Read: Animals of the future

    Bedbugs suck up more than three times their body weight in blood. As they do, they also take in any viruses or other infectious agents that might circulate in the body of their prey, such as hepatitis B and HIV. They have never been found to transmit these pathogens in the wild—but this doesn’t mean that the parasites are benign. “Bedbugs produce some of the most irritating bites of all insects,” says Doggett, a medical entomologist at Westmead Hospital, in Sydney, Australia. “If I receive one, I don’t sleep, as I react so badly. If there are lots of bedbugs, the bites are horrendous.” There have been cases where people have accidentally set mattresses on fire in desperate attempts to chase off the bugs, sometimes burning down their home in the process.

    Humans aren’t the only ones to react so strongly. The Cimicidae family, to which bedbugs belong, comprises about 100 species. Almost all prefer to bite nonhuman animals, such as birds. Biologists have observed cliff-swallow chicks jumping to their death from heavily infested nests rather than enduring the bites.

    Infestations in which hundreds of bugs may descend upon a bed at night can cause a human sleeper to become anemic. Victims can even develop insomnia, anxiety, and depression. They may find themselves shunned by friends, blacklisted by landlords, and—being sleep-deprived—more prone to car accidents and problems at work.

    Read: The psychological toll of bedbugs

    Indirectly, at least, bedbugs may cause human deaths. Doggett has noticed that some people in Africa are giving up the bed nets that protect them from mosquitoes and life-threatening malaria infections because bedbugs hide in them. “In some regions, malaria cases are on the rise, and we think that bedbugs are contributing to this,” he says.

    By now, bedbug resistance has been reported against most of the prevalent insecticides, including organochlorines, organophosphates, carbamates, neonicotinoids, aryl pyrroles, and pyrethroids. Some of today’s bedbug strains tolerate pesticide doses that are many thousands of times higher than those that used to consistently kill them. Resistant bedbugs have either developed gene mutations that prevent pesticides from binding effectively to their cells or they produce enzymes that quickly break down the toxins in their body. Others are growing thicker exoskeletons that the poisons can’t easily penetrate.

    An investigation some years back into a hospital in Cleveland discovered that new bedbugs showed up in the facility every 2.2 days on average. And tropical bedbugs seem just as happy in our modern indoors as the common variety does. “Heating and air-conditioning have made our living environments more standardized,” Lee says. “If a tropical bedbug happens to be introduced to a house in Norway, it can now survive there even in winter.”

    Currently, the only bedbug sprays that still tend to work are certain combination products that blend different classes of pesticides. But it’s only a matter of time before these, too, will fail, experts say: Reports of resistance have already been documented. More and more, exterminators incorporate nonchemical approaches such as heat treatments, in which trained professionals warm up rooms to more than 120 degrees Fahrenheit for several hours. They sometimes sprinkle a floury dust called diatomaceous earth around rooms, which clings to those bugs that hide from the heat in wall cracks or under mattresses. The dust abrades the insect’s exoskeleton, dehydrating it to death.

    Such measures—combined with more awareness—have helped plateau, or even partly reverse, the spread of bedbugs in some places. In New York City, for example, bedbug complaints fell by half from 2014 to 2020, from 875 complaints a month to 440, on average. To be sure, that’s still 14 complaints a day.

    But although effective, nonchemical methods tend to work slowly. “It’s very common that an elimination takes one to two or even three months,” says Changlu Wang, an entomologist at Rutgers University. Meanwhile, residents must keep living in their infested quarters.

    Nonchemical measures may also be expensive, because they can require laborious steps such as sealing cracks in walls and physically removing bugs by vacuuming. Although a quick (but increasingly futile) spraying of pesticides may cost a few hundred dollars, mechanical eradications can run as high as several thousand dollars. This puts effective bedbug control out of many people’s reach, making them vulnerable to entrenched infestations that can spread through communities.

    The result is that the epidemic has shifted to the poor, says Michael Levy, an epidemiologist at the University of Pennsylvania: “While many cities now have bedbug policies, very few provide much assistance to those who cannot afford treatment.” A 2016 report on 2,372 low-income apartment units in 43 buildings across four New Jersey cities found that 3.8 percent to 29.5 percent were infested with bedbugs.

    The northward spread of tropical bedbugs complicates matters further. Although the two species look alike, tropical bedbugs have more hair on their legs, which allows them to climb out of many of the smooth-walled traps that are used to monitor homes. This means that infestations could stay undetected longer, Lee says. And the larger a population grows, the harder it is to get rid of.

    To fight back, researchers find inspiration in traditional wisdom. In the Balkan region, homeowners used to spread the leaves of the bean plant Phaseolus vulgaris L. around their beds. The leaves possess tiny hooks on their surface that trap the bugs. Now scientists at UC Irvine are developing a “physical insecticide” in the shape of a synthetic material sporting sharply curved microstructures that mimic those on the bean leaves. These irreversibly impale the feet of the bedbugs, Catherine Loudon, a biology professor at UC Irvine, wrote in a 2022 paper in Integrative and Comparative Biology: “The bugs are unable to get away once they are pierced.”

    Other recent approaches are also rooted in nature. Scientists have found, for example, that essential oils can repel bedbugs. However, the effect is mostly temporary. Certain fungal spores, on the other hand, work permanently. “Basically, the spores go into the body of the bedbug and kill it,” Wang says. At least one product containing the insect-killing fungus Beauveria bassiana is now available in the United States.

    Read: A better bed bug trap

    Researchers continue to be fascinated by the biology of this insect, particularly its sex life. Although female bedbugs possess a normal set of genitalia, the males typically mate by stabbing a needle-sharp penis straight into the female’s abdomen to inject sperm. They usually do this just after a female bedbug has fed, because this makes her too engorged to protect herself.

    Having to cope with these frequent injuries has led female bedbugs to evolve the only immunity organ in the insect kingdom, says Klaus Reinhardt, a zoologist at the Dresden University of Technology, in Germany. They have also evolved a remarkably elastic material that covers the parts of their abdomen most likely to be stabbed. “It resembles one of those self-sealing injection bottles that close up again when you pull the needle,” Reinhardt says.

    Although this knowledge will likely do little to combat these pests directly, answering another question might: Why don’t bedbugs stay on their host’s body, as lice do? As it turns out, bedbugs don’t like our smell. Certain lipids in human skin repel the bugs, according to a 2021 study in Scientific Reports. This makes them retreat to daytime hiding places, marking their trails with pheromones.

    Already, exterminators try to trap bedbugs with fake trail markings. And one day, we might deter the insects from spreading by treating suitcases with smells they despise.

    But for now, caution remains the best approach. Experts advise that travelers check accommodations for bedbug-defecation stains: on mattress seams and furniture, and behind headboards. (The insects poop as frequently as a few dozen times after every blood meal, often right next to their victims.) Suitcases should be kept in the hotel bathtub or wrapped in a plastic bag. Upon arrival back home, the luggage’s contents should be put into the clothes dryer for at least 30 minutes at the highest setting, or into a very cold freezer for several days.

    If bedbugs do invade a home, “the biggest mistake is to try and get rid of them on one’s own,” Doggett says. “The average person doesn’t appreciate how challenging it is to control bedbugs and will use supermarket insecticides that are labeled for bedbugs but don’t work. The infestation will spread, and the costs escalate.”

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    Ute Eberle

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  • Americans Eat Obscene Amounts of Protein. Is It Enough?

    Americans Eat Obscene Amounts of Protein. Is It Enough?

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    For years, the American approach to protein has been a never-ending quest for more. On average, each person in the United States puts away roughly 300 pounds of meat a year; we are responsible for more than a third of the multibillion-dollar protein-supplement market. Our recommended dietary allowance, or RDA, for protein is 0.8 grams per kilogram of body weight per day—a quota that a 160-pound person could meet with a couple of eggs in the morning and an eight-ounce steak at night. American adults consistently eat well above that amount, with men close to doubling it—and recent polls show that millions of us want to increase our intake.

    The American appetite for protein is, simply put, huge. And still, Jose Antonio thinks we’re getting nowhere near enough.

    The RDA of 0.8 grams per kilogram is “nothing, literally nothing,” Antonio, a health-and-human-performance researcher at Nova Southeastern University, in Florida, told me. “Most of my friends get that at breakfast.” In an ideal world, Antonio said, totally sedentary adults should consume at least twice that; people who seriously exercise should start with a minimum of 2.2 grams per kilogram, and ramp their levels up from there. (Antonio is also a co-founder of the International Society of Sports Nutrition, which has received sponsorships from companies that sell protein supplements.)

    In Antonio’s pro-protein world, people would be fitter, more energetic, and suffer less chronic disease; they’d build muscle more efficiently, and recover faster from workouts. There is no definitive cap, in his view, on how much protein people should strive for. The limit, he said, is “How much can a human consume in a single day?”

    Among nutritionists, Antonio’s viewpoint is pretty fringe. There is, other experts told me, such a thing as too much protein—or at least a point of rapidly diminishing returns. But researchers don’t agree on how much protein is necessary, or how much is excessive; they’ve reached no consensus on the extent of its benefits, or whether eating extra servings can send our health into decline. Which leaves Americans with no protein ceiling—and plenty of room for our protein hunger to grow, and grow, and grow.

    Read: You’re probably drinking enough water

    Not having enough protein is clearly very bad. Protein is essential to the architecture of our cells; we rely on it for immunity and hormone synthesis, and cobble it together to build muscles, skin, and bone. Among the three macronutrients—the other two being carbohydrates and fat—protein is the only one that “we need to get every day,” Joanne Slavin, a nutrition researcher at the University of Minnesota, told me. Nearly half of the 20 amino-acid building blocks that make up protein can’t be produced in-house. Go without them for too long, and the body will start to break its own tissues down to scavenge the molecules it needs.

    That state of deficiency is exactly what the protein RDA was designed to avoid. Researchers decided the threshold decades ago, based on their best estimations of the amount of protein people needed to balance out their loss of nitrogen—a substance that’s in amino acids but that the body can’t itself make. The average person in the study, they found, needed 0.66 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight to avoid going into the red. So they set the guidelines at 0.8, a level that would keep the overwhelming majority of the population out of the deficiency zone. That number has stuck in the many years since, and Slavin, who has sat on the Dietary Guidelines Advisory Committee, sees no reason for it to change. People who are expending extra energy on growth, or whose muscles are taxed by exercise or aging, might need more. But for the typical American adult, Slavin said, “I think 0.8 is the right number.”

    Others vehemently disagree. The current standard is “not enough to support everyday living,” Abbie Smith-Ryan, a sports-nutrition expert at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, told me. Adults, she and others told me, should be getting more like 1.2 or 1.6 grams per kilogram at baseline. Their beef with the RDA is twofold. For one, the original nitrogen analyses oversimplified how the body metabolizes and retains protein, Stuart Phillips, a protein researcher at McMaster University, in Canada, told me. And second, even if the 0.8 number does meet our barest needs, “there’s a much more optimal amount we should be consuming” that would further improve our health, Katie Hirsch, an exercise physiologist at the University of South Carolina, told me. (I reached out to the USDA, which helps develop the U.S.’s official Dietary Guidelines, about whether the RDA needed to change; a spokesperson referred me to the National Academy of Sciences, which said that the RDA was last reviewed in 2002, and was expected to be reviewed again soon.)

    If Hirsch and others are right, even people who are slightly exceeding the government guideline might not be maximizing their resilience against infections, cardiovascular disease, metabolic issues, muscle loss, and more. People who are working out and still eating the measly 0.8 grams per kilogram per day, Antonio told me, are also starving themselves of the chance to build lean muscle—and of performance gains.

    But the “more” mentality has a limit. Experts just can’t agree on what it is. It does depend on who’s asking, and their goals. For most people, the benefits “diminish greatly” past 1.6 grams per kilogram, Phillips told me. Smith-Ryan said that levels around 2.2 were valid for athletes trying to lose weight. Antonio is more liberal still. Intakes of 3.3 or so are fair game for body builders or elite cyclists, he told me. In one of his studies, he had athletes pack in 4.4 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight for weeks—a daily diet that, for a 160-pound person, would require three-plus pounds of steak, 16 cups of tofu, or 89 egg whites.

    Read: The Jordan Peterson all-meat diet

    That is … a lot of protein. And most of the other experts I spoke with said that they didn’t see the point, especially for Americans, who already eat more protein than people in most other countries. “There’s very little evidence that more is better,” Marion Nestle, a nutrition researcher at New York University, told me.

    The worry isn’t necessarily that tons of protein would cause acute bodily harm, at least not to people who are otherwise in good health. Over the years, researchers have raised concerns that too much protein could damage the kidneys or liver, leach calcium from the bones, or even trigger cancer or early death—but the evidence on all fronts is, at best, mixed. In Antonio’s high-protein studies with athletes, he told me, their organs have remained in tip-top shape. The known drawbacks are more annoying than dangerous: High-protein diets can raise the risk of bloating, gas, and dehydration; burning through tons of protein can also make people feel very, very hot. Roughly a quarter of the participants in Antonio’s ultra-high-protein study dropped out: Many of them felt too full, he told me, and no longer enjoyed food. One volunteer was so plagued by night sweats by the close of the trial, he said, that she could no longer fall asleep.

    Whether many years of an ultrahigh-protein lifestyle could be harmful is less clear. Native communities in the Arctic have healthfully subsisted on such diets for generations, but they’ve had a long time to adapt; those in Western society might not fare the same.

    Over the years, it’s gotten easy to interpret protein’s apparent lack of immediate downsides as permission to reach for more. But for now, many experts would rather err on the side of moderation. “Would I feed that much to one of my relatives? I would not,” Susan Roberts, a nutrition researcher at Tufts University, told me. Even if protein itself turns out not to be hard on the body, the foods it comes in still might be, including processed meats or sugary “high-protein” powders, shakes, cookies, chips, and bars. People pounding protein also risk squeezing other nutrients out of their diet, Roberts told me—whole grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables, all of them packed with fiber, a vital ingredient that nutritionists actually do agree we lack.

    Read: Selling the fantasy of high-protein everything

    Plus, Slavin argued, there’s a point at which excess protein becomes a straight-up waste. When people eat more than about 20 to 40 grams of protein in a single sitting, their protein-processing machinery can get overwhelmed; the body eliminates the nitrogen as waste, then treats the rest as it would a carbohydrate or fat. “You can get fat on proteins just like you can get fat on carbohydrates,” Slavin told me. Which makes overdoing protein, in her eyes, “expensive and stupid.”

    The excess can have consequences beyond what our own bodies endure. Meat production drives greenhouse-gas emissions and uses up massive tracts of land. And Maya Almaraz, a food-systems researcher at Princeton, has found that the majority of the nitrogen pollution in wastewater is a by-product of our diets. The more protein we eat, the more we might be feeding toxic algal blooms.

    There’s no denying that protein deficiency is a problem in many parts of the world, even within the United States. Protein sources are expensive, putting them out of reach of poor communities. Meanwhile, many of the people who worry most about getting enough of it—the wealthy, the ultra-athletic, the educated—are among those who need to supplement the least. Experts, for now, may not agree on how much protein is too much for individuals. But if appetite is all we have to curb our intake, going all in on protein might create problems bigger than anything we’ve had to stomach so far.

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    Katherine J. Wu

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  • The Masks We’ll Wear in the Next Pandemic

    The Masks We’ll Wear in the Next Pandemic

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    On one level, the world’s response to the coronavirus pandemic over the past two and half years was a major triumph for modern medicine. We developed COVID vaccines faster than we’d developed any vaccine in history, and began administering them just a year after the virus first infected humans. The vaccines turned out to work better than top public-health officials had dared hope. In tandem with antiviral treatments, they’ve drastically reduced the virus’s toll of severe illness and death, and helped hundreds of millions of Americans resume something approximating pre-pandemic life.

    And yet on another level, the pandemic has demonstrated the inadequacy of such pharmaceutical interventions. In the time it took vaccines to arrive, more than 300,000 people died of COVID-19 in America alone. Even since, waning immunity and the semi-regular emergence of new variants have made for an uneasy détente. Another 700,000 Americans have died over that period, vaccines and antivirals notwithstanding.

    For some pandemic-prevention experts, the takeaway here is that pharmaceutical interventions alone simply won’t cut it. Though shots and drugs may be essential to softening a virus’s blow once it arrives, they are by nature reactive rather than preventive. To guard against future pandemics, what we should focus on, some experts say, is attacking viruses where they’re most vulnerable, before pharmaceutical interventions are even necessary. Specifically, they argue, we should be focusing on the air we breathe. “We’ve dealt with a lot of variants, we’ve dealt with a lot of strains, we’ve dealt with other respiratory pathogens in the past,” Abraar Karan, an infectious-disease physician and global-health expert at Stanford, told me. “The one thing that’s stayed consistent is the route of transmission.” The most fearsome pandemics are airborne.

    Read: The plan to stop every respiratory virus at once

    Numerous overlapping efforts are under way to stave off future outbreaks by improving air quality. Many scientists have long advocated for overhauling the way we ventilate indoor spaces, which has the potential to transform our air in much the same way that the advent of sewer systems transformed our water. Some researchers are similarly enthusiastic about the promise of germicidal lighting. Retrofitting a nation’s worth of buildings with superior ventilation systems or germicidal lighting is likely a long-term mission, though, requiring large-scale institutional buy-in and probably a considerable amount of government funding. Meanwhile, a more niche subgroup has zeroed in on what is, at least in theory, a somewhat simpler undertaking: designing the perfect mask.

    Two and a half years into this pandemic, it’s hard to believe that the masks widely available to us today are pretty much the same masks that were available to us in January 2020. N95s, the gold standard as far as the average person is concerned, are quite good: They filter out at least 95 percent of .3-micron particles—hence N95—and are generally the masks of preference in hospitals. And yet, anyone who has worn one over the past two and a half years will know that, lucky as we are to have them, they are not the most comfortable. At a certain point, they start to hurt your ears or your nose or your whole face. When you finally unmask after a lengthy flight, you’re liable to look like a raccoon. Most existing N95s are not reusable, and although each individual mask is pretty cheap, the costs can add up over time. They impede communication, preventing people from seeing the wearer’s facial expressions or reading their lips. And because they require fit-testing, the efficacy for the average wearer probably falls well short of the advertised 95 percent. In 2009, the federal government published a report with 28 recommendations to improve masks for health-care workers. Few seem to have been taken.

    These shortcomings are part of what has made efforts to get people to wear masks an uphill battle. What’s more,Over the course of the pandemic, several new companies have submitted new mask designs to NIOSH, the federal agency tasked with certifying and regulating masks,. Few, if any, have so far been certified. The agency appears to be overworked and underfunded. In addition, Joe and Kim Rosenberg, who in the early stages of the pandemic launched a mask company that applied unsuccessfully for NIOSH approval, told me the certification process is somewhat circular: A successful application requires huge amounts of capital, which in turn require huge amounts of investment, but investors generally like to see data showing that the masks work as advertised in, say, a hospital, and masks cannot be tested in a hospital without prior NIOSH approval. (NIOSH did not respond to a request for comment.)

    New products aside, there do already exist masks that outperform standard N95s in one way or another. Elastomeric respirators are reusable masks that you outfit with replaceable filters. Depending on the filter you use, the mask can be as effective as an N95 or even more so. When equipped with HEPA-quality filters, elastomerics filter out 99.97 percent of particles. And they come in both half-facepiece versions (which cover the nose and mouth) and full-facepiece versions (which also cover the eyes). Another option are PAPRs, or powered air-purifying respirators—hooded, battery-powered masks that cover the wearer’s entire head and constantly blow HEPA-filtered air for the wearer to breathe.

    Given the challenges of persuading many Americans to wear even flimsy surgical masks during the past couple of years, though, the issues with these superior masks—the current models, at least—are probably disqualifying as far as widespread adoption would go in future outbreaks. Elastomerics generally are bulky, expensive, limit range of motion, obscure the mouth, and require fit testing to ensure efficacy. PAPRs have a transparent facepiece and in many cases don’t require fit testing, but they’re also bulky, currently cost more than $1,000 each, and, because they’re battery-powered, can be quite noisy. Neither, let me assure you, is the sort of thing you’d want to wear to the movie theater.

    Read: Is it time to start masking again?

    The people who seem most fixated on improving masks are a hodgepodge of biologists, biosecurity experts, and others whose chief concern is not another COVID-like pandemic but something even more terrifying: a deliberate act of bioterrorism. In the apocalyptic scenarios that most worry them—which, to be clear, are speculative—bioterrorists release at least one highly transmissible pathogen with a lethality in the range of, say, 40 to 70 percent. (COVID’s is about 1 percent.) Because this would be a novel virus, we wouldn’t yet have vaccines or antivirals. The only way to avoid complete societal collapse would be to supply essential workers with PPE that they can be confident will provide infallible protection against infection—so-called perfect PPE. In such a scenario, N95s would be insufficient, Kevin Esvelt, an evolutionary biologist at MIT, told me: “70-percent-lethality virus, 95 percent protection—wouldn’t exactly fill me with confidence.”

    Existing masks that use HEPA filters may well be sufficiently protective in this worst-case scenario, but not even that is a given, Esvelt told me. Vaishnav Sunil, who runs the PPE project at Esvelt’s lab, thinks that PAPRs show the most promise, because they do not require fit testing. At the moment, the MIT team is surveying existing products to determine how to proceed. Their goal, ultimately, is to ensure that the country can distribute completely protective masks to every essential worker, which is firstly a problem of design and secondly a problem of logistics. The mask Esvelt’s team is looking for might already be out there, just selling for too high a price, in which case they’ll concentrate on bringing that price down. Or they might need to design something from scratch, in which case, at least initially, their work will mainly consist of new research. More likely, Sunil told me, they’ll identify the best available product and make modest adjustments to improve comfort, breathability, useability, and efficacy.

    Esvelt’s team is far from the only group exploring masking’s future. Last year, the federal government began soliciting submissions for a mask-design competition intended to spur technological development. The results were nothing if not creative: Among the 10 winning prototypes selected in the competition’s first phase were a semi-transparent mask, an origami mask, and a mask for babies with a pacifier on the inside.

    In the end, the questions of how much we should invest in improving masks and how we should actually improve them boil down to a deeper question about which possible future pandemic concerns you most. If your answer is a bioengineered attack, then naturally you’ll commit significant resources to perfecting efficacy and improving masks more generally, given that, in such a pandemic, masks may well be the only thing that can save us. If your answer is SARS-CoV-3, then you might worry less about efficacy and spend proportionally more on vaccines and antivirals. This is not a cheery choice to make. But it is an important one as we inch our way out of our current pandemic and toward whatever waits for us down the road.

    Read: The pandemic’s legacy is already clear

    For the elderly and immunocompromised, super-effective masks could be useful even outside a worst-case scenario. But more traditional public-health experts, who don’t put as much stock in the possibility of a highly lethal, deliberate pandemic, are less concerned about perfecting efficacy for the general public. The greater gains, they say, will come not from marginally improving the efficacy of existing highly effective masks but from getting more people to wear highly effective masks in the first place. “It’s important to make masks easier for people to use, more comfortable and more effective,” Linsey Marr, an environmental engineer at Virginia Tech, told me. It wouldn’t hurt to make them a little more fashionable either, she said. Also important is reusability, Jassi Pannu, a fellow at the Johns Hopkins Center for Health Security, told me, because in a pandemic stockpiles of single-use products will almost always run out.

    Stanford’s Karan envisions a world in which everyone in the country has their own elastomeric respirator—not, in most cases, for everyday use, but available when necessary. Rather than constantly replenishing your stock of reusable masks, you would simply swap out the filters in your elastomeric (or perhaps it will be a PAPR) every so often. The mask would be transparent, so that a friend could see your smile, and relatively comfortable, so that you could wear it all day without it cutting into your nose or pulling on your ears. When you came home at night, you would spend a few minutes disinfecting it.

    Karan’s vision might be a distant one. America’s tensions over masking throughout the pandemic give little reason to hope for any unified or universal uptake in future catastrophes. And even if that happened, everyone I spoke with agrees that masks alone are not a solution. They’re almost certainly the smallest part of the effort to ensure that the air we breathe is clean, to change the physical world to stop viral transmission before it happens. Even so, making and distributing millions of masks is almost certainly easier than installing superior ventilation systems or germicidal lighting in buildings across the country. Masks, if nothing else, are the low-hanging fruit. “We can deal with dirty water, and we can deal with cleaning surfaces,” Karan told me. “But when it comes to cleaning the air, we’re very, very far behind.”

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    Jacob Stern

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  • Effective Altruism’s Philosopher King Just Wants to Be Practical

    Effective Altruism’s Philosopher King Just Wants to Be Practical

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    Academic philosophers these days do not tend to be the subjects of overwhelming attention in the national media. The Oxford professor William MacAskill is a notable exception. In the month and a half since the publication of his provocative new book, What We Owe the Future, he has been profiled or excerpted or reviewed or interviewed in just about every major American publication.

    MacAskill is a leader of the effective-altruism, or EA, movement, whose adherents use evidence and reason to figure out how to do as much good in the world as possible. His book takes that fairly intuitive-sounding project in a somewhat less intuitive direction, arguing for an idea called “longtermism,” the view that members of future generations—we’re talking unimaginably distant descendants, not just your grandchildren or great-grandchildren—deserve the same moral consideration as people living in the present. The idea is predicated on brute arithmetic: Assuming humanity does not drive itself to premature extinction, future people will vastly outnumber present people, and so, the thinking goes, we ought to be spending a lot more time and energy looking out for their interests than we currently do. In practice, longtermists argue, this means prioritizing a set of existential threats that the average person doesn’t spend all that much time fretting about. At the top of the list: runaway artificial intelligence, bioengineered pandemics, nuclear holocaust.

    Whatever you think of longtermism or EA, they are fast gaining currency—both literally and figuratively. A movement once confined to university-seminar tables and niche online forums now has tens of billions of dollars behind it. This year, it fielded its first major political candidate in the U.S. Earlier this month, I spoke with MacAskill about the logic of longtermism and EA, and the future of the movement more broadly.

    Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

    Jacob Stern: Effective altruists have been focused on pandemics since long before COVID. Are there ways that EA efforts helped with the COVID pandemic? If not, why not?

    William MacAskill: EAs, like many people in public health, were particularly early in terms of warning about the pandemic. There were some things that were helpful early, even if they didn’t change the outcome completely. 1Day Sooner is an EA-funded organization that got set up to advocate for human-challenge trials. And if governments had been more flexible and responsive, that could have led to vaccines being rolled out months earlier, I think. It would have meant you could get evidence of efficacy and safety much faster.

    Read: How future generations will remember us

    There is an organization called microCOVID that quantifies what your risk is of getting COVID from various sorts of activities you might do. You hang out with someone at a bar: What’s your chance of getting COVID? It would actually provide estimates of that, which was great and I think widely used. Our World in Data—which is kind of EA-adjacent—provided a leading source of data over the course of the pandemic. One thing I think I should say, though, is it makes me wish that we’d done way more on pandemics earlier. You know, these are all pretty minor in the grand scheme of things. I think EA did very well at identifying this as a threat, as a major issue we should care about, but I don’t think I can necessarily point to enormous advances.

    Stern: What are the lessons EA has taken from the pandemic?

    MacAskill: One lesson is that even extremely ambitious public-health plans won’t necessarily suffice, at least for future pandemics, especially if one was a deliberate pandemic, from an engineered virus. Omicron infected roughly a quarter of Americans within 100 days. And there’s just not really a feasible path whereby you design, develop, and produce a vaccine and vaccinate everybody within 100 days. So what should we do for future pandemics?

    Early detection becomes absolutely crucial. What you can do is monitor wastewater at many, many sites around the world, and you screen the wastewater for all potential pathogens. We’re particularly worried about engineered pathogens: If we get a COVID-19-scale pandemic once every hundred years or so from natural origins, that chance increases dramatically given advances in bioengineering. You can take viruses and upgrade them in terms of their destructive properties so they can become more infectious or more lethal. It’s known as gain-of-function research. If this is happening all around the world, then you just should expect lab leaks quite regularly. There’s also the even more worrying phenomenon of bioweapons. It’s really a scary thing.

    In terms of labs, possibly we want to slow down or not even allow certain sorts of gain-of-function research. Minimally, what we could do is ask labs to have regulations such that there’s third-party liability insurance. So if I buy a car, I have to buy such insurance. If I hit someone, that means I’m insured for their health, because that’s an externality of driving a car. In labs, if you leak, you should have to pay for the costs. There’s no way you actually can insure against billions dead, but you could have some very high cap at least, and it would disincentivize unnecessary and dangerous research, while not disincentivizing necessary research, because then if it’s so important, you should be willing to pay the cost.

    Another thing I’m excited about is low-wavelength UV lighting. It’s a form of lighting that basically can sterilize a room safe for humans. It needs more research to confirm safety and efficacy and certainly to get the cost down; we want it at like a dollar a bulb. So then you could install it as part of building codes. Potentially no one ever gets a cold again. You eradicate most respiratory infections as well as the next pandemic.

    Stern: Shifting out of pandemic gear, I was wondering whether there are major lobbying efforts under way to persuade billionaires to convert to EA, given that the potential payoff of persuading someone like Jeff Bezos to donate some significant part of his fortune is just massive.

    MacAskill: I do a bunch of this. I’ve spoken at the Giving Pledge annual retreat, and I do a bunch of other speaking. It’s been pretty successful overall, insofar as there are other people kind of coming in—not on the size of Sam Bankman-Fried or Dustin Moskovitz and Cari Tuna, but there’s definitely further interest, and it is something I’ll kind of keep trying to do. Another organization is Longview Philanthropy, which has done a lot of advising for new philanthropists to get them more involved and interested in EA ideas.

    I have not ever successfully spoken with Jeff Bezos, but I would certainly take the opportunity. It has seemed to me like his giving so far is relatively small scale. It’s not clear to me how EA-motivated it is. But it would certainly be worth having a conversation with him.

    Stern: Another thing I was wondering about is the issue of abortion. On the surface at least, longtermism seems like it would commit you to—or at least point you in the direction of—an anti-abortion stance. But I know that you don’t see things that way. So I would love to hear how you think through that.

    MacAskill: Yes, I’m pro-choice. I don’t think government should interfere in women’s reproductive rights. The key distinction is when pro-life advocates say they are concerned about the unborn, they are saying that, at conception or shortly afterwards, the fetus becomes a person. And so what you’re doing when you have an abortion is morally equivalent or very similar to killing a newborn infant. From my perspective, what you’re doing when having an early-term abortion is much closer to choosing not to conceive. And I certainly don’t think that the government should be going around forcing people to conceive, and then certainly they shouldn’t be forcing people to not have an abortion. There is a second thought of Well, don’t you say it’s good to have more people, at least if they have sufficiently good lives? And there I say yes, but the right way of achieving morally valuable goals is not, again, by restricting people’s rights.

    Stern: I think there are at least three separate questions here. The first being this one that you just addressed: Is it right for a government to restrict abortion? The second being, on an individual level, if you’re a person thinking of having an abortion, is that choice ethical? And the third being, are you operating from the premise that unborn fetuses are a constituency in the same way that future people are a constituency?

    MacAskill: Yes and no on the last thing. In What We Owe the Future, I do argue for this view that I still find kind of intuitive: It can be good to have a new person in existence if their life is sufficiently good. Instrumentally, I think it’s important for the world to not have this dip in population that standard projections suggest. But then there’s nothing special about the unborn fetus.

    On the individual level, having kids and bringing them up well can be a good way to live, a good way of making the world better. I think there are many ways of making the world better. You can also donate. You can also change your career. Obviously, I don’t want to belittle having an abortion, because it’s often a heart-wrenching decision, but from a moral perspective I think it’s much closer to failing to conceive that month, rather than the pro-life view, which is it’s more like killing a child that’s born.

    Stern: What you’re saying on some level makes total sense but is also something that I think your average pro-choice American would totally reject.

    MacAskill: It’s tough, because I think it’s mainly a matter of rhetoric and association. Because the average pro-choice American is also probably concerned about climate change. That involves concern for how our actions will impact generations of as-yet-unborn people. And so the key difference is the pro-life person wants to extend the franchise just a little bit to the 10 million unborn fetuses that are around at the moment. I want to extend the franchise to all future people! It’s a very different move.

    Read: Is colonizing Mars the most important project in human history?

    Stern: How do you think about trying to balance the moral rigor or correctness of your philosophy with the goal of actually getting the most people to subscribe and produce the most good in the world? Once you start down the logical path of effective altruism, it’s hard to figure out where to stop, how to justify not going full Peter Singer and giving almost all your money away. So how do you get people to a place where they feel comfortable going halfway or a quarter of the way?

    MacAskill: I think it’s tough because I don’t think there’s a privileged stopping point, philosophically. At least not until you’re at the point where you’re really doing almost everything you can. So with Giving What We Can, for example, we chose 10 percent as a target for what portion of people’s income they could give away. In a sense it’s a totally arbitrary number. Why not 9 percent or 11 percent? It does have the benefit of 10 percent being a round number. And it also is the right level, I think, where if you get people to give 1 percent, they’re probably giving that amount anyway. Whereas 10 percent, I think, is achievable yet at the same time really is a difference compared to what they otherwise would have been doing.

    That, I think, is just going to be true more generally. We try to have a culture that is accepting and supportive of these kinds of intermediate levels of sacrifice or commitment. It is something that people within EA struggle with, including myself. It’s kind of funny: People will often beat themselves up for not doing enough good, even though other people never beat other people up for not doing enough good. EA is really accepting that this stuff is hard, and we’re all human and we’re not superhuman moral saints.

    Stern: Which I guess is what worries or scares people about it. The idea that once I start thinking this way, how do I not end up beating myself up for not doing more? So I think where a lot of people end up, in light of that, is deciding that what’s easiest is just not thinking about any of it so they don’t feel bad.

    MacAskill: Yeah. And that’s a real shame. I don’t know. It bugs me a bit. It’s just a general issue of people when confronted with a moral idea. It’s like, Hey, you should become vegetarian. People are like, Oh, I should care about animals? What about if you had to kill an animal in order to live? Would you do that? What about eating sugar that is bleached with bone? You’re a hypocrite! Somehow people feel like unless you’re doing the most extreme version of your views, then it’s not justified. Look, it’s better to be a vegetarian than to not be a vegetarian. Let’s accept that things are on a spectrum.

    On the podcast I was just on, I was just like, ‘Look, these are all philosophical issues. This is irrelevant to the practical questions.’ It’s funny that I am finding myself saying that more and more.

    Stern: On what grounds, EA-wise, did you justify spending an hour on the phone with me?

    MacAskill: I think the media is important! Getting the ideas out there is important. If more people hear about the ideas, some people are inspired, and they get off their seat and start doing stuff, that’s a huge impact. If I spend one hour talking to you, you write an article, and that leads to one person switching their career, well, that’s one hour turned into 80,000 hours—seems like a pretty good trade.

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    Jacob Stern

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  • You’ve Probably Seen Yourself in Your Memories

    You’ve Probably Seen Yourself in Your Memories

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    Pick a memory. It could be as recent as breakfast or as distant as your first day of kindergarten. What matters is that you can really visualize it. Hold the image in your mind.

    Now consider: Do you see the scene through your own eyes, as you did at the time? Or do you see yourself in it, as if you’re watching a character in a movie? Do you see it, in other words, from a first-person or a third-person perspective? Usually, we associate this kind of distinction with storytelling and fiction-writing. But like a story, every visual memory has its own implicit vantage point. All seeing is seeing from somewhere. And sometimes, in memories, that somewhere is not where you actually were at the time.

    This fact is strange, even unsettling. It cuts against our most basic understanding of memory as a simple record of experience. For a long time, psychologists and neuroscientists did not pay this fact much attention. That has changed in recent years, and as the amount of research on the role of perspective has multiplied, so too have its potential implications. Memory perspective, it turns out, is tied up in criminal justice, implicit bias, and post-traumatic stress disorder. At the deepest level, it helps us make sense of who we are.

    The distinction between first- and third-person memories dates back at least as far as Sigmund Freud, who first commented on it near the end of the 19th century. Not for another 80 years, though, did the first empirical studies begin fleshing out the specifics of memory perspective. And it was only in the 2000s that the field really started picking up steam. What those early studies found was that third-person memories were far less unusual than once thought. The phenomenon is associated with a number of mental disorders, such as depression, anxiety, and schizophrenia, but it is not merely a symptom of pathology; even among healthy people, it is quite common.

    Just how common is tricky to quantify. Peggy St. Jacques, a psychology professor at the University of Alberta who studies perspective in memory, told me that roughly 90 percent of people report having at least one third-person memory. For the average person, St. Jacques estimates, on the basis of her research, that about a quarter of memories from the past five years are third-person. (At least a couple of papers have found that women tend to have more third-person memories than men do, but a third study turned up no statistically significant difference; on the whole, research on possible demographic disparities is scant.) In certain rare cases, people may have only third-person memories. As you try to recall your own, be warned that things can get confusing fast. Perhaps you can call to mind early-childhood scenes that you picture from a third-person perspective. But it’s hard to know whether these are genuine memories translated from the first person to the third person, or third-person scenes constructed from stories or photographs. To some people, third-person memories are second nature; to others, they sound like science fiction.

    Why any given memory gets recalled from one perspective rather than the other is the result of a whole bunch of intersecting factors. People are more likely to remember experiences in which they felt anxious or self-conscious—say, when they gave a presentation in front of a crowd—in the third person, St. Jacques told me. This makes sense: When you’re imagining how you look through an audience’s eyes in the moment, you’re more likely to see yourself through their eyes at the time of recall. Researchers have also repeatedly found that the older a memory is, the more likely you are to recall it from the third person. This, too, is fairly intuitive: If first-person recollection is the ability to adopt the position—and inhabit the experience—of your former self, then naturally you’ll have more trouble seeing the world the way you did as a 6 year old than the way you did last week. The tendency for older memories to be translated into the third person may also have to do with the fact that the more distant the memory is, the less detail you’ll likely have, and the less detail you have, the less likely you are to be able to reassume the vantage point from which you originally witnessed the scene, David Rubin, a Duke University psychology professor who has published dozens of papers on autobiographical memory, told me.

    Less intuitive, perhaps, is the reverse: People are able to recall a scene in greater detail when they’re asked to take a first-person perspective than when they’re asked to take a third-person perspective. “Sometimes in a courtroom, an eyewitness to a holdup might be asked to recall what happened from the perspective of the clerk,” St. Jacques told me. But if her research is any indication, such tactics may blur rather than sharpen the witness’s memory. “Our research suggests that might actually be more likely to make the memory less vivid, make the eyewitness less likely to remember the specifics.”

    Even without an examiner’s instructions, such an eyewitness might be predisposed to recall the robbery in the third person: Researchers have found that people often translate traumatic or emotionally charged memories out of the first person. This may be because first-person memories tend to elicit stronger emotional reactions at the time of recall, and by taking a third-person perspective, we can distance ourselves from the painful experience, Angelina Sutin, a psychologist at Florida State University, told me. It may also be a function of the information at our disposal. In charged situations, Rubin said, people tend to zero in on the object of their anger or fear. Take the bank-robbery scenario: The police “want the teller to describe the person who’s robbing them, and instead he describes in great detail the barrel of the gun pointed at his head.” He can’t remember much beyond that. And so, lacking the information necessary to situate himself in his original perspective, he floats.

    This distancing effect has some fairly mind-bending potential applications, none more so, perhaps, than to the problem of near-death experiences. For many years, philosophers and psychologists have documented instances of people reporting that, in moments of trauma, they felt as though they were floating outside—usually above—their body. Rubin points out, however, that such reports are not in-the-moment descriptions but after-the-fact accounts. So he has a controversial idea: What in retrospect seems like an out-of-body experience may in fact be only the trauma-induced translation of a first-person memory into a third-person memory, one so compelling that it deceives you into thinking the experience itself occurred in the third person. The recaller, in this theory, is like a person peering through a convex window, mistaking a distortion of the glass for a distortion of the world.

    Traumatic dissociations are dramatic but by no means isolated cases of what Rubin calls the “constructive nature of the world.” In a 2019 review article on memory perspective, St. Jacques noted that shifting your vantage and fabricating an entirely new scene rely on the same mental processes occurring in the same regions of the brain. So similar are recollecting the past and projecting into the future that some psychologists lump them into a single category: “mental time travel.” Both are acts of construction. The distinction between memory and imagination blurs.

    At some level, people generally understand this, but rarely do we get so incontrovertible an example as with third-person memories. If you and a friend try to recall the decor at the restaurant where you got dinner last month, you might find that you disagree on certain points. You think the wallpaper was green, your friend thinks blue, one of you is wrong, and you’re both sure you’re right. With third-person memories, though, you know the memory is distorted, because you could not possibly have been looking at yourself at the time. If, without even realizing it, you can change something so central as the perspective from which you view a memory, how confident can you really be in any of the memory’s details?

    In this way, third-person memories are sort of terrifying. But shifts in perspective are more than mere deficiencies of memory. In her lab at Ohio State University, the psychologist Lisa Libby is investigating the relationship between memory perspective and identity—that is, the way shifts in our memory play a role in how we make sense of who we are. In one experiment, Libby asked a group of female undergraduates whether they were interested in STEM. The students then participated in a science activity, some in a version designed to be engaging, others in a version designed to be boring. Afterward, when she surveyed the undergrads about how they’d found the exercise, she instructed some to recall it from a first-person perspective and others from a third-person perspective. The first-person group’s answers corresponded to how interesting the task really was; the third-person group’s corresponded to whether they’d said they liked STEM in the initial survey.

    Libby’s takeaway: Each type of memory seems to have its own function. “One way to think about the two perspectives is that they help you represent … two different components of who you are as a person,” Libby told me. Remembering an event from a first-person perspective puts you in an experiential frame of mind. It helps you recall how you felt in the moment. Remembering an event from a third-person perspective puts you in a more narrative frame of mind. It helps you contextualize your experience by bringing it in line with your prior beliefs and fitting it into a coherent story. Memory is the—or at least a—raw material of identity; perspective is a tool we use to mold it.

    Maybe the most interesting thing about all of this is what it suggests about the human proclivity for narrative. When we shift our memories from one perspective to another, we are, often without even realizing it, shaping and reshaping our experience into a story, rendering chaos into coherence. The narrative impulse, it seems, runs even deeper than we generally acknowledge. It is not merely a quirk of culture or a chance outgrowth of modern life. It’s a fact of psychology, hardwired into the human mind.

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    Jacob Stern

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