A century ago this week, the city of Chicago, its air tinged with smoke, was conducting a body count. It had just endured eight days of arson and violence, which had claimed the lives of thirty-eight people—fifteen of them white, twenty-three of them black—including John Simpson, the sole police officer killed during the unrest. More than five hundred people were injured. Ostensibly, the violence began when Eugene Williams, a seventeen-year-old African-American, went swimming and rafting with his friends on Lake Michigan and drifted toward a part of the beach used only by whites. A white man named George Stauber began hurling stones at Williams, who eventually slipped beneath the water and drowned. Racial skirmishes broke out along the beach and spread across the city, lighting kindling that had been laid throughout the previous year. Thousands of black soldiers returning from the First World War competed against white workers for employment and housing. The veterans brought with them a renewed intolerance for discrimination, an attitude summarized in an editorial by W. E. B. Du Bois in the magazine The Crisis. “By the God of Heaven,” Du Bois wrote, “we are cowards and jackasses if now that the war is over, we do not marshal every ounce of our brain and brawn to fight a sterner, longer, more unbending battle against the forces of hell in our own land.” Other African-Americans, newly arrived migrants from the South, as part of what became known as the Great Migration, were viewed as interlopers whose willingness to work for low pay undercut the wages of white men. As the poet Eve Ewing notes in her searing collection “1919,” white Chicagoans attributed the violence to a “Negro invasion” of previously white enclaves. The world had been made safe for democracy; Chicago had not.

This past Saturday, the Chicago Race Riot of 1919 Commemoration Project held events across the city, including a bike tour and panel discussions, to memorialize the dead and to detail the legacy of that week of chaos and terror. The same day, fifteen hundred miles to the south, in El Paso, Texas, there was a different commemoration taking place, one more akin to a dramatic reënactment than a sombre reflection—the past climbing out from its shallow grave to place its claim on the present. Twenty-two people died at the hands of a man armed with a semi-automatic rifle and a list of grievances yellowed by a century of repetition. A manifesto believed to be written by the shooter cites the “Hispanic invasion of Texas”—a contortion of history if ever there was one—as a motive for the murders. Another section of that document offers a disclaimer meant to indemnify Donald Trump. “My ideology has not changed for several years,” it states. “My opinions on automation, immigration, and the rest predate Trump and his campaign for president.” This is notable, in the sense that unsolicited denials often sound like direct admissions. In the past month, Trump has urged four sitting members of Congress—Ilhan Omar, Ayanna Pressley, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Rashida Tlaib—all women of color, to “go back” to where they came from, and attacked a fifth representative, Elijah Cummings, an African-American, by claiming that his district is “disgusting,” rat-infested, and beneath human habitability. Trump followed that with a tweet appearing to jeer when Cummings reported that his home had been burglarized. The language of the alleged El Paso shooter’s screed bears resemblance to Trump’s rhetoric, particularly in the martial description of undocumented people as an “invasion.” If the immediate conversation in the aftermath of El Paso—and the massacre of nine people thirteen hours later, in Dayton, Ohio—has tended toward the accessibility of weapons of war in civilian life, the word “invasion” becomes even more telling. We are not, the killers seem to be telling us, living in peacetime. An AK-47 is a tool created to address enemy invasions.

In remarks delivered at the White House on Monday, Trump explicitly denounced white supremacy, just as he eventually did after first praising the “very fine people” at the “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, two years ago this weekend. (He reverted to form a few months later by referring to Haiti and African countries as “shitholes.”) Just as he criticized people who chanted, about Ilhan Omar, “Send her back!,” at a rally three weeks ago. (He followed that by reversing that criticism and launching more racist tweets a week later.) Trump’s mindless belligerence, his perilous and ignorant world view, and, particularly, his use of inflammatory racist rhetoric are rightly seen as alarming. The Presidency is the most esteemed and powerful platform in the country, and it is reasonable to see a relationship between the President’s imprimatur and the ballistic bedlam that regularly erupts and targets people and groups for whom he has expressed contempt. Cesar Sayoc, who on Monday was sentenced to twenty years in prison for sending sixteen homemade pipe bombs to people whom he deemed enemies of the President, argued that his perspective was skewed by mental illness—and also by his obsessive admiration of Trump. This, for the record, is why people in public life are supposed to be mindful of their rhetoric. Their words reach a wide swath of the public, which has varying abilities to interpret their meaning and their nuance, or to parse what is said in earnest from what is meant facetiously. (Trump is particularly troublesome in this regard, as his most incendiary words are frequently explained away as humor lost on his uptight critics.)

The more difficult possibility is that the alleged shooter’s manifesto is truthful, and that there is no causal or suggestive link between his actions and Trump’s words. The Chicago riot of 1919 exists within a constellation of violence known as the Red Summer. Two dozen riots erupted in the summer and fall of that year, overwhelmingly targeting black people, particularly those who had migrated into urban areas in the North and the Midwest. In that pre-Internet age, there was no need for central coördination. In Elaine, Arkansas; Washington, D.C.; Omaha, Nebraska; Charleston, South Carolina; Wilmington, Delaware; Chicago, and elsewhere, mobs of whites, confronted with the possibility of black people gaining a share of the housing, employment, and democracy that they enjoyed, independently reached the same conclusion about the proper recourse. As the historian Linda Gordon points out in her book “The Second Coming of the KKK,” the Klan, which had become moribund at the end of the nineteenth century, was resurrected during that time, adopting a broader set of hatreds, adding Jews and immigrants to its enemies list. Racial charlatans such as the lawyer and eugenicist Madison Grant, who wrote “The Passing of the Great Race,” and the journalist Lothrop Stoddard, the author of “The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy,” whipped up public fears that the white population was being subsumed in a tide of inferior bloodlines. Exclusionary, racist immigration laws were passed. And black people in cities were pursued and attacked, leaving an estimated two hundred and fifty fatalities. Invasions, after all, are to be met with overwhelming force.

Trump declared his Presidential campaign on June 16, 2015, citing the presence of Mexican rapists as part of his rationale. A day later, Dylann Roof killed nine black people in the basement of a church in Charleston, citing the threat of black rapists as his rationale. The former did not cause the latter—Roof, in fact, had been planning the attack for months. But Trump and Roof were responding to the same racial Zeitgeist, one in which the elevation of a black President meant that the value of whiteness had been correspondingly diminished. History, we’re told, repeats itself. But this phrasing has always troubled me, as if we are beholden to an inanimate application designed to produce similar situations again and again. A more precise assessment is that people respond in familiar ways to the same dynamics across time. There is no law mandating that our futures bear some familial resemblance to the worst of our present. Humans may learn from history. But we’ll invariably find ourselves locked in conflict with dangerous men intoxicated with their own sense of mission, and drunkenly believing that the only problem with the past is that we ever departed from it at all.

For almost a century, the first Atlantic salmon caught each season was delivered to the President of the United States. The first of these fish, an eleven-pound silver, was sent by Karl Andersen, a Norwegian house painter in Bangor, Maine, to President William Howard Taft, in 1912. Andersen had caught the fish in the Kenduskeag Stream, on April 1st, when the water would have been flush with ice, and cold enough to numb his legs. He used a pliant bamboo rod, and sent the fish as a gift from Bangor; he hoped it would “contribute to the city’s need of honor and respect.” (His bet didn’t pay off: Bangor is now best known as the model for Stephen King’s Derry—a fictional town populated by cannibalistic clowns and reanimated zombie pets.) On April 12th, he packed the salmon with straw and ice and placed it on an overnight train to the capital. Taft ate it poached whole, with cream sauce and a garnish of parsley.

The Kenduskeag, which in the language of the local Penobscot Nation means “eel weir place,” had long been famous for its salmon runs. But by the time Andersen landed his fish the salmon population was already in freefall. Hundreds of dams were installed on New England’s rivers during the industrial revolution, presenting unnavigable walls for the migratory fish. As early as the nineteenth century, the Penobscot begged the governor of Maine to address the falling salmon numbers, but the condition of the waterways only worsened. A 1960 report by the city’s health department claimed that Bangor was using “the same sewage treatment facilities as that given to the crewmen of Samuel de Champlain’s ship in 1604.” It described “sewage solids” accumulating on the Kenduskeag’s banks, children and animals playing in a mixture of feces and “thick green scum,” and, strangest of all, a city program that drew water from a particularly sewage-heavy section and sprayed it on I-95—apparently in an effort to control dust.

Andersen, whether wittingly or not, enshrined a local tradition. President Franklin Roosevelt accepted thirteen salmon—a record that no other President has come close to matching. The annual gifting continued through to Dwight Eisenhower’s Presidency, when the Penobscot River, which the Kenduskeag flows into, became so polluted that all fishing in the region paused for some years. In 1964, after fishing resumed, President Lyndon Johnson ate a fish from the Narraguagus River that had been sliced into steaks and poached in a French style. (For culinarily-inclined readers, the science writer Catherine Schmitt has catalogued almost all Presidential salmon meals in her book, “The President’s Salmon.”) But the salmon population continued to dwindle. Since 1986, no commercial fisherman has reported landing a wild Atlantic salmon.

In 1992, the final Presidential salmon, weighing nine and a half pounds, was caught by Claude Z. Westfall, a sixty-four-year-old fisherman, in the Penobscot River. (The following year, Westfall’s son caught what would have been the last salmon, but due to what Westfall cryptically called “politics” the fish was never delivered.) As the president of the Veazie Salmon Club, Westfall kept tabs on who fished on opening day and what they caught, so he knew that he was the first person to land a salmon that year. He kept the fish cool while he fished out the rest of the morning. When he got home, he slit its belly from gill to vent, reached inside, and pulled out its organs. Then he packed its cavity with ice and placed it in his freezer. Once frozen, a fish can be thawed only once before being eaten.

Most Presidential salmon were shipped to the White House, or occasionally hand-delivered by Maine politicians hoping to get a special audience. But Westfall refused to let anyone else deliver his fish. On May 25th, he and his wife, Rosemae, placed it in a cooler in the back seat of their car and drove three hours to the compound of President George H. W. Bush, in Kennebunkport. Security guards checked their car, their bodies, and finally disappeared into a shed with the fish. “I don’t know what they did with it,” Westfall said. Five minutes later, they returned with the fish and waved the couple through.

Claude and Rosemae spent the afternoon with the President and the First Lady. Bush was an avid Atlantic salmon angler himself and particularly loved fishing up north in Canada. While they spoke, Bush pointed out the Coast Guard cutters by the bay and the photos of state leaders that sat framed on his walls. After the visit, they kept in touch. At one point, Westfall—who had spent around sixty years fishing the rivers and streams of the northeastern U.S.—invited the President to join him on a trip in Maine. Bush, citing a busy schedule, respectfully declined. Today, one of Westfall’s most prized possessions is a photo of the four of them. In it, Westfall displays the glistening fish while the President and the First Lady smile at the camera. Rosemae points—mouth open in delight—at the Bush family’s two dogs, who are leaping at the salmon. “Not too many people get an opportunity like that,” Westfall said.

Bush was the last person to receive a Presidential fish. Eight years later, in 2000, Atlantic salmon were listed as endangered.

Fishermen call salmon “leapers” because, when they spawn, they leap out of the water and flash in the sun. I learned this in 2014, when I moved to Alaska. I sold salmon for a nonprofit and occasionally went out with the fishermen to catch the fish myself. I spent most of the trips throwing up over the side of the boat, but I learned to scan the horizon for jumping fish, because the sight of one would almost always mean many more below. Salmon are anadromous. They are born in freshwater; migrate hundreds of miles within the ocean, quickly adapting to salt water; and then return to their natal streams to spawn. They are muscled, powerful fish, and, if you’re lucky enough to see one at the start of its journey, the way it swims through rushing water takes your breath away. Salmon expend all of their energy on their upstream migration—they don’t eat—and the transition from cool salt water to warm freshwater physically stresses their system. Atlantic salmon can survive two or three spawning seasons, though many die after just one. Pacific salmon literally disintegrate in the water at the end of their journey.

Salmon are an indicator species: in a fracturing ecosystem, they’re among the first to die off. States across New England have spent the past half century trying to bring back the fish. They’ve dismantled dams, stocked fry, and instituted fishing regulations. Connecticut alone spent eight and a half million dollars over the past thirty-two years on restoring salmon, largely without success. The last significant wild population left in the continental United States is in Maine. (There are still scattered populations across North America—mostly in Canada.) Each year, Maine’s Department of Marine Resources and United States Fish and Wildlife Service stocks the rivers and streams with millions of salmon eggs and fry and thousands of parr and smolts. In 2018, only about a thousand seafaring salmon returned home.

Last spring, I visited Rory Saunders, a fisheries biologist for the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), who grew up in Bangor and now works on restoring Atlantic salmon in Maine. When Saunders was growing up, several paper mills dumped polluted wastewater directly into rivers. Through the sixties, “paper mill sludge rafts” (floating collections of mill pollution and trash) regularly drifted down the Penobscot. He’d fish the stream and catch yellow perch or smallmouth bass—fish that, as he delicately put it, “aren’t very demanding of water quality.” He still remembers his parents scolding him for playing by the water. “We’d come back smelling like a sewer,” he told me. “Of course, things are a lot better now.” During the seventies, Bangor began cleaning up the Kenduskeag because of the Clean Water Act. The mills surrounding the city were prevented from dumping waste directly into the water, the city built a sewage-treatment plant, in 1968, and the river began to recover.

The Kenduskeag is now a swift-running stream that flows through the city to the Penobscot. Some fish have started to reappear. In 2015 and then again in 2017, a single, lonely salmon redd, or nest, was spotted in the gravel. Saunders tells me that he’s hopeful. Right now, he said, the federal government plans to delist Maine’s Atlantic salmon population in about seventy-five years, providing that “everything remains steady.”

That “everything” refers to fishing regulation off the coast of Greenland, water temperatures, ocean pH levels, and, notably, federal funding for NOAA. Global warming makes the Atlantic salmon’s future uncertain. The increased acidification in the ocean that comes from rising atmospheric carbon dioxide levels, for example, has the potential to interfere with salmon’s ability to smell, which makes it difficult to sense predators, find food, and navigate to spawning grounds. Shallow streams are more vulnerable to both daily and extreme temperature swings than oceans, and, as freshwater temperatures soar, traditional runs in the South won’t support salmon populations. Developmental stages—the transitions between the eggs, fry, parr, smolt, and returning salmon—are governed by changes in water temperature, and warmer waters can disrupt the salmon’s life cycle by triggering stunted growth or premature hatching. Over the next thirty years, we will see mass extinctions on a scale that humans have never witnessed before. A recent U.N. report predicted that a million species—about an eighth of the estimated species alive today—are likely to vanish unless something changes drastically. When I see salmon running, it feels like I’m watching something that will soon disappear.

On the same day that I went to see Saunders, I visited Westfall at his home, in Orono. I’d spent nearly seven hours in the car that day, and, when I arrived at our interview five minutes early, I parked in the driveway and closed my eyes to stretch. When I opened them, Westfall, now ninety-one, wearing a plaid shirt and a cell-phone holster and holding a large black cat, was standing next to my door. “Well, come in when you’re ready,” he said.

Inside, the house was neat and orderly. Rosemae had died seven years earlier, and these days, Westfall told me, it was just him and the cat. He took me into his basement, where the walls are covered with exquisite, framed fishing flies. Periodically during our interview, Westfall pointed to one of the frames and asked me to guess how much each was worth. (Between five hundred and three thousand a fly, apparently.) At one point, he rifled through boxes, pulled something out, and pressed it into the palm of my hand: a hand-tied foxfire fly, made of dyed squirrel fur and black ostrich herl, ribbed with silver tinsel—perfect for catching salmon.

Westfall is one of the greatest Atlantic salmon anglers left alive. In addition to serving as the president of the Veazie Salmon Club, he was a founding member of the Maine Council of the Atlantic Salmon Federation. But now most of his days follow a more familiar pattern: he has lunch with one of his friends at the senior center and then spends the afternoon in his basement, puttering around his collection of salmon memorabilia. (He also has a giant model tractor in his basement that he built out of discarded beer cans.) He still goes out to fish, and, when I spoke with him, he was planning a summer camping trip up north, near the border. He told me that he didn’t expect to catch much. I’d spent the past two weeks reporting on efforts to bring back wild Atlantic salmon and had spoken to scientists, fishermen, and conservationists, most of whom had mustered some optimism about the future of the fish. Westfall was the only person to tell me that he thought the salmon were never coming back. He gestured around his basement and at the artifacts on the walls. “But that’s why all this matters,” he said.

Toni Morrison died on Monday evening, at the age of eighty-eight. A professor emeritus at Princeton University, Morrison won the Pulitzer Prize, in 1988, for her novel “Beloved,” and the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1993. She published seven novels, including “Song of Solomon” and “The Bluest Eye,” before she began contributing to The New Yorker, in 1998. Her nonfiction, as much as her novels, had an ability to illuminate hidden truths, both personal and political. Her first piece for the magazine was a Comment about Bill Clinton and the conclusions of the Starr report, in which she famously called Clinton “our first black President.” Morrison contributed four more pieces to the magazine, including a short story, “Sweetness,” about the relationship between a mother and daughter during the civil-rights era. In 2016, she published an essay in the magazine about the election of Donald Trump. “So scary are the consequences of a collapse of white privilege that many Americans have flocked to a political platform that supports and translates violence against the defenseless as strength,” she wrote. “These people are not so much angry as terrified, with the kind of terror that makes knees tremble.” Morrison’s prose has the effect of ripping the blinds off the wall and letting the sunlight in. In an email exchange with a New Yorker editor, the day after Trump’s election, she wrote, “Re the future: I am intellectually weapon-ized.” Here are the pieces that she has contributed to the magazine in the course of nearly two decades.

Comment
Thanks to the papers, we know what the columnists think. Thanks to the polls, we know what “the American people” think. But what about the experts on human folly? Read more.

Sweetness
“With that skin, there was no point in being tough or sassy, even when you were right.” Read more.

Making America White Again
The choices made by white men, who are prepared to abandon their humanity out of fear of black men and women, suggest the true horror of lost status. Read more.

The Work You Do, the Person You Are
The pleasure of being necessary to my parents was profound. I was not like the children in folktales: burdensome mouths to feed. Read more.

The Color Fetish
Of constant fascination for me are the ways in which literature employs skin color to reveal character or drive narrative. Read more.

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Whenever I think about Toni Morrison, I think about my favorite teacher, Deborah Stanford, a black woman who, when I was in high school, helped me to understand that to read seriously was a discipline and a privilege, and that an author who helps us to do it is a kind of hero. Her brand of stern, fertile New Criticism (I’m pretty sure I learned that term from her) was rooted in the completeness of her respect for writers and their intentions. Why stray from the text when it had been so painstakingly prepared? Ms. Stanford instigated my lifelong relationships with Flannery O’Connor and Adrienne Rich, among many others, but it always felt obvious that the truest joy of her job was to teach Morrison. (Uncannily, she even looked—to me, at least—a bit like Morrison in her early dust-jacket photos: fair-skinned, with a shortish, feathery Afro; wide-mouthed and fiercely funny around the eyes.) I took her classes in my sophomore and senior years, and, during those years, read “The Bluest Eye,” “Song of Solomon,” and “Beloved,” revelling in how long we could linger on just one line, or image, or passage, tossing it around to shake loose (and, at Ms. Stanford’s insistence, to support) new meanings. Maybe the first great symbol of my life as a reader was the riddle of Pilate’s nonexistent navel, from “Song of Solomon,” still my favorite of Morrison’s novels. We talked about that uninterrupted tummy for an hour straight, scraping at the idea until my head felt oddly clean.

People who are roughly my age, lucky to have entered high school when Morrison was already a legendary figure, will disproportionately, I’d bet, think of Morrison’s work as an early exegetical playground. From her, we learned what it could mean to be alienated from the past, or traumatized into new and freakish modes of sight, and we learned just how total an experience a haunting—a memory or “re-memory”—really is. We were reading her even when we weren’t, because we read everything else with her somewhere in mind. Such was, and is, her importance. I have learned to read in other ways since high school—“Beloved” is a structural marvel, a kind of medieval cathedral, and it’s hard to see that as a kid—but I will always, on the deepest level, think of Morrison in terms of moments and images: huge, generous, quickly multiplying trees, offering endlessly parsable fruit. She shared with O’Connor a Catholicism whose tradition of rigorous, many-tiered scriptural reading, detailed in “Christ and Apollo,” one of O’Connor’s favorite books, parallels the tough process of reading Morrison with sufficiently satisfying depth.

It’s only right, then, that Morrison was an editor and exhaustive curator of black writers—what’s an editor but a friendly pedagogue?—and that her classic literary-critical study, “Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination,” has become an unfailing guide to all kinds of American phenomena. There she goes, teaching us Cather and Melville just as we were once taught Morrison herself. I can think of no other writer whose work, and the cult of its consumption—still, surely, in its very first stages—embodies the ideal of writing and reading as a community practice, meant more for the enrichment of a people than for any individual’s private therapy or entertainment. “We don’t need any more writers as solitary heroes,” she once said. “We need a heroic writer’s movement: assertive, militant, pugnacious.” Her writing opens up into other writing, richness into richness, in a way that will help such solidarity come to pass. But two things can be true. Our teacher is our hero, too.