For more than two decades, patients of an OB/GYN named Robert Hadden warned Columbia University that he was sexually inappropriate and abusive. One woman even called the police and had him arrested, but Hadden was allowed to return to work days later. Direct colleagues while in the exam room looked away; his Columbia superiors failed to take action. To date, more than 245 patients have alleged that the obstetrician abused them, and the institution—a prestigious one committed to “the highest standards of ethical conduct”—continues to aggressively fights new lawsuits from his victims. This is a piece of tremendous reporting—but it’s also deeply triggering and upsetting.
On an October morning, Monson went to her first appointment with Hadden, and they proceeded from a get-to-know-you chat in his office to an exam room. Monson knew immediately that the breast check, prolonged and whole-handed, was not normal; she asked Hadden if he’d felt something concerning. She remembers that during both the breast and pelvic exams, the medical assistant turned her back to face the counter as if she had something to do there. But the counter was empty. As soon as Hadden left the room, Monson felt the assistant’s eyes boring into her. “I felt like she was telling me, ‘Don’t come back,’” Monson says. She did not fully process that she had been sexually assaulted until hours later, sitting alone on her sofa. “It was like a revelation,” she says. “I just suddenly knew. I was just sobbing. I understood what had happened.”
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Biographers who write about power and innovation often acquire a certain cachet. That’s certainly the case with celebrity author Walter Isaacson, whose new 600-pager on Elon Musk is all but guaranteed to be one of the bestselling nonfiction titles of the year. As Shawn McCreesh’s profile for New York Magazine makes clear, journalistic proximity to the world’s richest person makes for an interesting story in and of itself. Though questions persist about whether that proximity influences Isaacson’s reporting, there’s no doubt that the native Louisianan tells a hell of a story.
Isaacson is a particular type of biographer. His book is driven by listen-to-everyone-he-can access. It is not the Robert Caro approach with granular, yearslong reportage on the nature and implications of Musk’s power. Washington Post’s Will Oremus wrote in his September 10 review that “the larger concern is whether Isaacson’s heavy reliance on Musk as a primary source throughout his reporting kept him too close to his subject. Swaths of the book are told largely through Musk’s eyes and those of his confidants.” The book is scrupulously unsnarky — don’t expect the tone of the book Joe Hagan wrote on Jann Wenner. “It is pure narrative storytelling; there’s not preaching in there,” says Isaacson. “People will come away from this book, if they admire Musk, with more evidence that they would like. If they hate Musk, they’ll come away with more evidence to reinforce their dislike of him. Hopefully, there will be a large group of readers who’ll say, ‘Wow, I get it, it’s more complex, and there’s not simply one way to look at it.’”
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Paul Landis, one of Jacqueline Kennedy’s Secret Service agents, supposedly found a bullet lodged in the car’s back seat that infamous day in Dallas. What would this mean if true? James Robenalt sets out to analyze the bullet’s significance in a clinical manner, with his lack of hysteria and careful analysis making up for his somewhat dry approach. There are countless words on this subject, but this essay gives potentially new—and interesting—information rather than another rehash.
Then came November 22, 1963. A month after returning from Greece, Landis stood on the right rear running board of the Secret Service follow-up car, code-named “Halfback,” in the president’s motorcade as the vehicle headed from Dallas’s Love Field airport to a luncheon at the city’s Trade Mart. Landis was approximately 15 feet away when Kennedy was mortally wounded, a close witness to unspeakable horror.
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Jenisha Watts | The Atlantic | September 13, 2023 | 11,129 words
Journalist Jenisha Watts was raised in Kentucky, in part by her mom Trina Renee Watts, and in part by her granny. At one time, Trina was a promising track star. She loved words and was accepted to Western Kentucky University. But when she became pregnant with Jenisha, she dropped out. Soon, Trina was addicted to drugs, with five children from five different fathers, often leaving the kids alone when she left to get high. How did everything go wrong, seemingly so suddenly? Jenisha, a senior editor at The Atlantic, unravels a tangled family history skein by skein, discovering that Trina was sexually abused by her stepfather, Big Dishman, childhood trauma that became generational when Trina spiraled into addiction. Jenisha goes to Florida to live with relatives; her siblings went into the child welfare system. They never gained a stable living situation, causing damage that spurred their own addictions. This is a very tough read. It is a master class in craft, a bold testament to courage in the face of repeated humiliation. The final line of this piece is the most triumphant and inspiring sentence I have read this year. I won’t spoil it for you. It speaks to a truth: that we come into this world with part of our story written for us unless we can stand up, take the pen, and start to write the story for ourselves. —KS
Aymann Ismail and Mary Harris | Slate | September 10, 2023 | 3,418 words
“Alive is better than clean.” This belief guides the operators who talk to drug users who dial the Never Use Alone (NUA) hotline, a service they can call while they use alone. If they become unresponsive during the call, the operator then sends help. This moving story by Aymann Ismail—a companion piece to Mary Harris’ This American Life episode—follows Jessica Blanchard, one such operator in Southwest Georgia, who takes these calls from her cellphone. Blanchard, a former nurse and NUA’s education director, is also a mother to an addict; she has a “mama spirit,” a sixth sense, and knows within a few minutes of talking to someone whether she’ll need to call EMS. Critics ask: Does this approach to overdose prevention enable drug use? Isn’t supplying your own daughter with a clean needle a step in the wrong direction? Blanchard is nonjudgmental, caring, and quite literally an angel, giving each person on the other end of the line another chance. As Ismail shows, the work of NUA makes a strong case for harm reduction, and how treating others with dignity is not only compassionate, but life-saving. —CLR
Elizabeth Kolbert | The New Yorker | September 4, 2023 | 8,276 words
David Gruber is the kind of man who contemplates such questions as “What would a fluorescent shark look like to another fluorescent shark?” He’s the kind of man I want to read about. One of the founders of the Cetacean Translation Initiative—Project CETI for short—Gruber is currently trying to decode sperm whale click patterns. In a nutshell: he wants to talk to whales. (I presume he has questions for them, too.) Animals having language can be a fraught topic in the scientific community, but Gruber has gathered an impressive group that includes big names from the artificial intelligence field. The theory is that with enough data machine learning, algorithms could be taught to understand whale clicks. However, getting the data requires sticking a recording device on a suction cup to the back of a whale—no mean feat, particularly with a reporter watching. Despite the odd wayward recording device merrily bopping about the Caribbean Sea, the team is persevering. I am glad. A lot is at stake with the development of AI models, but a better understanding of nature would be in the plus column. This piece gives you a lot to think about but rewards you with some incredible scenes I will let you read to discover. —CW
Wyatt Williams | The Bitter Southerner | September 4, 2023 | 6,303 words
When I opened the email from The Bitter Southerner on September 5, I saw that they were sharing a new piece about Lucinda Williams. They had my attention. Then I noticed the author: Wyatt Williams (no relation). I sat up straight. I remembered Williams from “Eating the Whale” at Harper’s Magazine, a piece I savored, start to finish. That feeling when you know something is going to be good, so very good? I had it. I ingested this piece over a few days because I didn’t want it to be over. Williams’ mother and the singer-songwriter Lucinda Williams were born a few months apart in Louisiana in 1953, though this is no mere profile of Lucinda or a survey of the author’s personal history. Williams traces her voice through his life from childhood car rides to porch evenings spent listening to her songs with his mother, songs that evoke the “idea of Louisiana,” a waterlogged place slowly being washed away, populated by people trying to get by despite poverty, abuse, and alcoholism. What captivated me about this piece is that Williams by no means comes to terms with his mixed feelings about his home state, even after a deep study of Lucinda’s work, saying, “But if you asked for an explanation why I love this place, the only answer would be just the same as why I hate it.” What you end up with is a profound portrait of a place and a family, where if you look hard enough, beauty still resides if you choose to see it. —KS
Jackson Wald | GQ | September 13, 2023 | 2,725 words
When you first meet James Grammer, the central character of this underdog sports tale, you’d be forgiven for thinking something along the lines of this again? The seeming disconnect of a white sumo wrestler, or any athlete in a sport that tradition (or racism) has deemed “not theirs,” has fueled many a glib fish-out-of-water piece. Thankfully, Jackson Wald’s story fully ignores that trope, and Grammer becomes one of the most interesting people I met this week. While sumo has grown in the U.S. over the past few years, it’s still a curiosity; when Grammer and his fellow enthusiasts began practicing in a Brooklyn park, they had to deal with onlookers asking to join or even betting on their matches. Grammer wants to be a champion, but the charm of his story lies less in his quest for greatness than in his human complexity. Before a match, most sumos think about their opponents’ weakness. Not Grammer. “As a practitioner of Tibetan Buddhism,” Wald writes, “he believes in a series of deities, including ones that are fierce and wrathful, and that as he’s staring his opponent directly in the eyes, he imagines he and his opponent as two forearm hairs on one of the evil deities, blowing against each other in the wind.” Yes, you’ll find the hallmarks of a good niche sports piece—a giant boa constrictor, a guy who seems to want to be a samurai, Wald sparring with the 340-found Grammer to predictable results—but it’s Grammer himself you’ll remember, and particularly the man he is outside the dohyo. —PR
Lane Brown | Vulture | September 6, 2023 | 3,179 words
Critics are everywhere; great critics, not so much. But all of them have seen their influence wane over the past 15 years, as the Mitchells and Dargises of the world have been subsumed by Rotten Tomatoes and its nuance-flattening Tomatometer score. Why? It’s gameable. (Also, as filmmaker Paul Schrader points out, “audiences are dumber.” No argument there.) Lane Brown digs into the rottenness, aided by one of the grossest lede images you’ll ever see at the top of a magazine feature. —PR
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In some ways, Jackson Wald’s look at sumo in NYC is a typical scrappy-band-of-enthusiasts subculture story. In others, it’s a sports-underdog story. And perhaps most surprisingly, it’s a portrait of a man for whom sumo simply makes sense. A memorable profile, disguised in a mawashi.
Practice was scarce today; a combination of injuries and a muggy, dense rain enveloping New York City kept the vast majority of its six members home for the weekend. Grammer quickly gave me a tour of his home—the bookshelves lined with thick texts on poetry, art, and existentialism, the kitchen stocked full of his sumo-training nutrients, and the dohyo itself, marked off in his living room by wedges of black electrical tape. And then we got to the matter at hand: it was time for Grammer and I to train.
Practice began with 100 shiko, an exercise that combines a deep squat with high leg raises, each motion ending with an emphatic stomp. Next came 100 teppo, or pillar strikes. We positioned ourselves on opposite sides of Grammer’s living room and began methodically hitting the supporting columns of his walls. (Grammer does 300 of these a week, and if you look closely enough at a patch near the living room window, you’ll see a long, lightning-bolt-shaped crack stretching from the top of the frame to the base of the wall: residual damage from the repeated blows). After five minutes of suriashi, a squatted walk around the dohyo, we partnered up and transitioned into butsukari—each of us taking turns, in a waltz-like rhythm, striking the other’s breast as we shuffled diagonally across the ring. By this point, only thirty minutes into the training, I was drenched in a coat of communal sweat, and my hips were screaming in pain. A wave of apprehension washed over me— primarily because the Beya’s technique coach had just walked through the door, and that meant it was time to spar.
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In a piece that will top “best of” lists in 2023, journalist Jenisha Watts unravels a tangled family history to understand how her mother Trina Renee Watts became addicted to drugs, often leaving Jenisha and her four siblings alone when she left to get high.
My deficiencies haunted me: my childhood, my accent, my lack of knowledge. Silly things, like the fact that I’d never seen the movies that well-off Black kids had all watched: Coming to America, Harlem Nights. I asked “Where you at?” instead of “Where are you?” I talked quietly because I was never certain I was saying the words correctly. When I said “picture,” people heard “pitcher.” Eventually, I trained myself to always say “photo.” I even found an acting coach online who agreed to give me voice lessons to try to change my accent, and we practiced on monologues in her studio.
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If you’ve been fortunate enough to be there while Erykah Badu works her otherworldly magic, Casey Gerald’s profile will remind you why the singer remains so magnetic, even 13 years after her last conventional studio album. (And if you haven’t been so fortunate, the piece’s lede will transport you there.) It’s not just a work of candor, but one of illumination: Gerald seeks out a wealth of impressive secondaries to shed valuable light on Badu, along with his own considered takeaways.
Let me be as clear as I possibly can: Erykah Badu is not like your aunt, not even your favorite one. I’ve met presidents, mayors, billionaires, Dallas Cowboy Hall of Famers, Holy Land juice healers, TED Talkers — a lot of people, all over the world, and Badu is one of the few who holds up after close inspection. I don’t mean she is perfect. I don’t mean she is better than you or anyone else. I mean she is who she says she is; she is trying to be better than she’s been. Most of all, she seems to truly like, or at least accept, herself. When I learned and saw that she walks barefoot nearly everywhere, and wondered how in the world she keeps her feet clean, she answers, “I don’t. They be black as hell!”
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This is a niche essay—not everyone is interested in a family spearheaded by high-altitude climbing greats—but as a fan of the climbing documentary “Torn,” I was delighted to catch up with Max Lowe’s latest projects. This offers a nice insight into his world, one that is just as much about family as it is about film.
There’s a scene in Torn where Max interrogates his mom about falling in love with Anker so soon after Alex died. It’s tense to watch, and it strips away any sense that Max is going to be delicate or easy on his subjects. “I was surprised, and thought, How dare you ask me that?” Jenni says. “But I was able to answer because I’m just as forthright as he is.”
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For The Bitter Southerner, Wyatt Williams explores his Louisiana upbringing and memories of his family and the state through the work of Lucinda Williams, the singer-songwriter born in 1953, the same year as his mother.
What I tried to type out on those nights instead was something about Lucinda’s approach as a poet: the way that, when you can’t exactly explain what you’re thinking or remembering without getting it somewhat wrong, or when the thing you’re trying to explain is inexpressible, sometimes the only way to do it is to just name your world: the places and people and things in it. Sometimes that can be the only way to explain it.
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Emma Marris thoughtfully explores the complicated relationship between eagles and farmers on the rugged Isle of Mull. The eagle’s beauty brings tourists, but their talons kill lambs. Should they stay or go? The farmers may be despondent, but Marris describes this rewilding conflict with passion.
This pair of eagles have raised several chicks in years past. A local sheep farmer named Jamie Maclean had complained that they were raising their chicks on a steady diet of his newborn lambs, which are born in spring, just as chicks hatch. And so, with Sexton’s help, the Scottish government agreed to pay for some “diversionary feeding.” Maclean would buy fish from a local fishmonger—at retail prices—with government money, and then put them out for the eagles to eat. The idea was that with the free fish rolling in, they’d leave the lambs alone.
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There’s nothing new about writing your way through a tasting menu at one of the world’s most lauded restaurants. There is something new, though, about doing so while also being honest with your preconceptions about the restaurant and its clientele; to do so is to risk coming off like a jackass in the process. Armed with a keen descriptive voice and a dash of self-deprecation, Jason Stewart manages to steer his way through.
Like with any exclusive club, the general rule is that the crowd worsens as the years tick by, and it’s no surprise that René is shutting down next year; I’d pull the rip cord too, mate.
I imagine the edimental salad days, back when gourmand freaks with open minds and food writers craving the next big thing lined the reservation book. I got a feel for the evening’s clientele with a welcoming cider: crypto bros, ponytailed tech virgins with bottles of añejo for the chef, and their TikToking wives along for the clout-chasing ride. I’m sure these folks like eating food, but do they really deserve to eat here, the Vatican for the global food bro?
Exclusivity isn’t always bad, so long as you can exclude the right people.
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John Verzi, a former post office worker, lived in a mobile home park in Las Vegas, spending his days watching TV and nights gambling in casinos. But Verzi had an interesting past: he was a gifted photographer, who for six decades had collected 25,000 autographs and taken more than 12,000 photos, including intimate snapshots of the world’s classiest and most famous celebrities. In 2018, Verzi died in his trailer with his collection. Fleishman tells the fascinating story of this eccentric man, with fantastic photographs of movie stars from Hollywood’s golden era.
It was a life of getting to places fast, of tips, winks and confidences. Verzi drove a VW Beetle and traveled with cameras and colored index cards for autographs. He’d get a nod that Frank Sinatra might be in Beverly Hills having a drink or Lucille Ball was playing backgammon at Pips or Jim Morrison of the Doors had arrived at a West Hollywood theater to see “The Beard,” a play that was raided by police for a sex scene. Verzi kept tabs and followed whispers.
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I debated on whether or not to recommend this essay on the impact of parenthood on adult friendships. At nearly 7,000 words, it’s too long, and many remarks from both the parents and childless adults Davis speaks with are whiny and irritating. But as a mother to a challenging 5-year-old and someone who constantly wonders whether she should have had a child, the piece hit a nerve. Maintaining friendships has been hard, even before I became a parent, and forming new ones is slow-going, so I work very hard to nurture the ones I have—ones that have survived our baby years, the pandemic, life. I ultimately feel for anyone, parent or not, trying to find their community right now, and root for you as you find your people. At the very least, use the piece as inspiration for a lively, heated conversation.
One Fourth of July, in my early 30s, I went upstate to spend the day with a college friend, her newborn, and one of her neighbors who had just had twins. Four new-new parents, three new-new babies, and me. Looking back, I think it was significant that my friend invited me into her life during a moment of total insanity. But at the time, I remember feeling like I suddenly had no idea who this person was anymore. She tried to engage with stories about my life but was clearly preoccupied. Meanwhile, she and her friend couldn’t stop discussing newborn bowel movements. Even if she didn’t necessarily want to be talking about poop, and was self-conscious about how much she was talking about poop, she needed to talk about her new baby, and all of the mysteries and anxieties, and feel understood by someone. I realized that I could nod and smile but never relate or soothe. I had a panic attack and left before the hot dogs got off the grill. I’m sure she was baffled by my reaction. And seven years later, I’m sure she’s still baffled, while I still have no clue what it felt like on her side of things.
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After facing death by near carbon-monoxide poisoning in 2013, indie artist Ben Kweller retreated from live performances for years. When his son Dorian was killed in a car accident this past February, Kweller leaned into the summer tour he and Dorian were supposed to do together, all because of a promise he’d made to his son.
In 2013, when Dorian was seven and Judah was a toddler, the Kwellers vacationed at a tiny cabin in the snowy mountains of New Mexico. One night, Liz woke up feeling sick, and as soon as Ben stood up out of bed, he fell over. They grabbed the kids and rushed outside to call 911. They were told they’d suffered acute carbon monoxide poisoning, likely due to a leaky wall furnace, and had been minutes away from death. The experience rocked Ben and sent him into a depression that caused him to cancel all his upcoming shows and retreat from playing live. He didn’t step onstage for several years. When Dorian died, Ben knew that unlike in the past, he had to keep playing. “I saw how trauma just kind of took a chunk out of my life and I can’t let that happen again,” he says.
Five months ago, just a few weeks before his planned SXSW debut, Dorian was killed in a car crash near the family’s home in Dripping Springs.
On stage, he acknowledges that some might wonder how he could continue with this tour after such a tragedy. How he could ride on the bus and plan the merch and do the sound check for a tour that started as a collaboration and is now a tribute. How he could find the motivation to give so much of himself to an audience when he’s still learning to navigate this new existence, one transformed by a kind of grief that musician Nick Cave, who has lost two sons, believes can “alter us on an almost atomic level.”
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Never Use Alone (NUA), a safe-use hotline that helps to prevent overdose deaths, is a service that drug users can call while using alone. If they become unresponsive during the call, the person on the other end of the line calls for help. In this intimate piece written by Aymann Ismail and reported by Mary Harris (for her This American Life episode), we follow operator Jessica Blanchard—who is also NUA’s education director—as she answers and navigates some of these calls from her home in Southwest Georgia. A former nurse and also a mother to an addict, Blanchard is nonjudgmental, empathetic, and quite literally an angel, giving the person on the other side of each call another chance at life.
In that instant, Blanchard unlearned everything she had been taught in nursing school about drug addiction. “We’re taught drugs are bad, ‘Just Say No,’ deputy dog, D.A.R.E. That’s the kind of stuff we were taught. That’s not realistic,” she said. “We were taught, ‘Well, you did it to yourself.’ That was the mantra. For some reason, that didn’t feel right to me. I was often deemed a soft, bleeding-heart pushover. I thought I was just being nice.”
After that, Blanchard became involved in harm reduction. “I didn’t want her to die. This whole thing—every fucking thing I do is about her not dying. Then about her and her homie not dying. Now it’s about the entire town,” she said.
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Gyasi Hall | Longreads | September 12, 2023 | 21 minutes (5,698 words)
The seventy-first issue of MADMagazine, cover dated June 1962, contains a noteworthy entry in Antonio Prohías’ Spy vs. Spy, a comic strip depicting Looney Tunes-style espionage between two pointy-headed, monochromatic secret agents. This particular installment isn’t the series’ best strip: it’s not the one with the most elaborate explosions, the most clever ending, or the one that’s most exemplary of Prohías’ precise and peerless art style. But it is, for me, the mostSpy vs. Spy strip ever, the one that best distills the already simplified distillate and sums up the whole enterprise.
One spy, sporting a trenchcoat, a wide-brimmed G-Man fedora, and secret service shades—a collection of clichéd noir signifiers, all in stark black—stands out in a field with a bucket of water. The moon is full and beautiful. The other spy, identical except in blinding white, peeks out from behind a tree, trying to suss out what his rival is up to. Black Spy stares at the moon through an elaborate sextant, adjusting various settings and making mental calculations, finally drawing an X on the ground with a compass before setting the bucket down. As he leaves, White Spy sneaks up to it, peers inside, trying to figure out what this could all mean. In the last panel, Black Spy has snuck back around to give White Spy a swift kick in the ass, grinning triumphantly as his enemy falls headfirst into the bucket, soaked and seeing stars.
This is the essence of Spy vs. Spy: delightfully stupid without ever being mean, delightfully simple without ever being dumb. Prohías’ comics are as perfect an example of the medium as you’re ever likely to find—even more so, I’d argue, than other all-time strips like Peanuts or Calvin and Hobbes, since its wordless pantomime operates so effortlessly using the mechanics of graphic narrative as its sole language. The above strip works so well because it forgoes high-concept gadgetry to make the petty, low-stakes reality of the spies’ eternal struggle that much clearer. It’s a perfect way to frame the proceeding complexities of the franchise as a whole.
This is the essence of Spy vs. Spy: delightfully stupid without ever being mean, delightfully simple without ever being dumb.
And make no mistake: Spy vs. Spy is a franchise, a bona fide phenomenon, as ubiquitous as comic strips get without the nostalgic momentum of the above GOATs, the “who the hell thinks this is funny?” anti-spectacle of something like Dilbert, or the dearth of basic premise that makes Garfield so ripe for memery. Decades and decades of comics, sure, but also video games, segments on TV shows, T-shirts, trading cards, a board game, action figures, plush toys, Halloween masks, NASCAR promotions, fucking Mountain Dew commercials. The famous image of the spies, shaking hands while holding explosives behind their backs with the tenderness you’d afford fresh fruit, is famous for a reason.
But like the spies themselves, the image we have of something is often what gets us in trouble. As consumers and customers, we are often trained not to see art (or tools or people) as complex things with a story, or the evolving context that informs their continued existence. This not-seeing is often a foundational ingredient of success. The image—the idea of an idea—is what everyone will know, what everyone will buy. I would like to look at Spy vs. Spy in chronological order to tell you the story of a simple, stupid thing. Knowing, after all, is half the battle.
Antonio Prohías was brilliant. He was an unmatched artist whose simple style belied his immense talents, and his mastery of cartoon logic and physical comedy puts him up there as one of the greatest cartoonists ever. As already mentioned, comic readers are encouraged as consumers to ignore the writers and artists who actually make the things they love—and with comic strips specifically, you also have to contend with the bespoke illusion created by syndication. Readers who open the funny pages of their local newspaper are taught to encounter their handful of daily panels as appearing out of thin air. The presentation is, of course, the point: exhaling slightly out of your nose at whatever the family from Baby Blues is up to is designed to feel inevitable. Can you, without looking it up, name the original creators of famous but not omnipresent strips like The Family Circus, Hägar the Horrible, Dennis the Menace, or Beetle Bailey, let alone the people who work on them now? I can’t either. No one made the strips; they captured them. It’s all just reportage.
The satirical tone of MAD Magazine helped mitigate these issues somewhat, but only because Prohías’ life story (which we’ll get to shortly) helped to sell the brand as equal parts mischievous, politically profound, and genuinely rebellious. Early Spy strips appeared with the following prelude: “Antonio Prohías is a famous Cuban artist who defied the censorship of the Castro regime with anti-communist cartoons—until he was forced to flee Havana with his life. Now, he graces the pages of MAD with his cartoon sequence of friendly rivalry called—Spy vs Spy.” While it’s cool to see that context for a strip about convoluted traps and Acme explosions, merely acknowledging something isn’t enough to legitimately combat the racism that creates America’s apathy toward all things international. Besides, these blurbs were clearly designed to gain MAD clout via association with Prohías’ politics.
In many ways, by the time he got to MAD, he had enjoyed a more successful and influential career than the vast majority of his co-workers. Despite Fulgencio Batista and his proxies’ oppressive tenures, Cuba had a robust media landscape during the mid-twentieth century, including an ecosystem of local and state newspapers and magazines. It was the perfect proving ground for a tenacious young artist to demonstrate his keen-eyed understanding of the nation’s cultural and political landscape. Prohías’ first professional publication was a cartoon in the newspaper Alerta in 1938, at just 17. Steady gigs soon followed: at one point, Prohías was working for five periodicals at once. In 1946, at 25, he became the first recipient of the Juan Gualberto Gómez gold medal and purse, a prestigious prize for Cuban journalism he would go on to win five more times. Add to that his three Ricardo de la Torriente prizes for best cartoon of the year (’48, ’49, and ’52), the Salon de Humoristico Publication first prize for best advertising cartoon (’55), and the International American Society of Journalists award for best cartoonist of the year selected from more than 20 Latin American countries (’60), and it’s clear that Prohías was nothing to fuck with long before he left Cuba.
Some of Prohías’ pre-Spy work sits in the realm of traditional political cartoons, single-panel visual gags like a peace sign as the blade of a guillotine, but the best of his early cartoons are the ones that begin to merge his political insights with the absurd lingua franca of cartoons themselves: exaggeration, slapstick, etc. These cartoons are full-on comic strips, usually starring recurring satirical characters. One character, El Hombre Siniestro, was a sadistic villain Prohías said was “born out of the national psychosis of the Cuban people,” as he felt “an element of fatality in the air, right before and after revolution.” In my favorite strip he stars in, El Hombre Siniestro is troubled by a dream of a man stranded on a desert island, so he wakes up, chugs multiple bottles of water, and goes back to bed, smiling contentedly now that the tide has risen and the man has drowned. Another character, Tovarich, was an evil communist, an obvious stand-in for Castro. He’s a scheming government agent, an antecedent to the spies: in one strip, he gives a man a present that, when opened, releases a spring-loaded hammer and sickle that simultaneously decapitates him and stamps his foot.
The contents of these strips, combined with the ubiquity of Prohías’ work in the late ’50s, angered many revolutionaries, including Castro himself. The Tovarich strips were “set” in Russia to maintain a level of plausible deniability—you could typically see the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral in the corner of at least one panel per strip—but the message was obvious. At one point, while Castro was giving a speech, he whipped a crowd of his supporters into a frenzy, accusing Prohías of being a counterrevolutionary who was working for the CIA. The crowd called for his execution, chanting Paredón para Prohías!Paredón para Prohías!
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Between his tainted reputation and the regime shutting down independent news outlets, work dried up fast. Prohías was forced to take up odd jobs to supplement his cartooning, and what work he did get published was often followed by lengthy coletillas, extended addenda added by government censors that undermined his points and accused him of treason. He lived in this hostile atmosphere for a year as opportunities evaporated, colleagues turned on him, and people spat at him on the street. Because he was one of the earliest public figures to question the fervor around Castro, escape was relatively easy: In May 1960, Prohías boarded a commercial flight to New York City, his family following soon after. He worked in a clothing factory, publishing cartoons criticizing the Cuban government in a few Spanish-language American dailies. He would never return to his home country.
Looking to break into American comics proper, Prohías spent whatever down time he had studying various periodicals, even before he made his escape. He correctly assumed the work that had made him (in)famous in Cuba wouldn’t translate well in the States. U.S. comics culture was, at this point, largely defined by A) increasingly meta reinventions of DC’s golden age superheroes, and B) the academic vulgarity of underground “comix.” Both of these subgenres were radically different expressions of the same nostalgic impulse, a reexamination of what comics had meant/could mean to a generation of kids who had grown up with the lethally flawed self-importance of American exceptionalism, as well as the earliest version of what we now think of as the “comic book industry.” Both were in full swing, and while seismic shifts in each industry were still a few years away, self-reflection had begun: these people were now teenagers, college kids, young adults, people who were starting to see beyond the figures they’d grown up with and the simple messages they carried, people who were beginning to imagine what the future could look like. If Prohías was going to make it in the U.S. the way he had in Cuba, he had to find a way to use his art to speak to this phenomenon.
Prohías saw something of a kindred spirit in MAD and its editors, the self-described “usual gang of idiots.” Their work was crude and juvenile, yes, but it was smart, too—playful, stylistically diverse, and overtly political. MAD’s publisher, William Gaines, knew a thing or two about censorship, in his own way. His company, EC Comics, had made its bones on the extreme violence and sexuality of crime and horror titles like Tales from the Crypt and Shock SuspenStories. But after the Comics Code Authority formed in 1954 to fight against the moral panic surrounding the medium, a list of rules for opt-in regulation so strict that publishers who agreed to it couldn’t even put “terror” or “horror” in the titles of their books, distributors had balked at EC’s more scandalous titles. Series were canceled; creators were let go. MAD was the last title left standing, having switched to a magazine format early on.
While Prohías’ and Gaines’ experiences are obviously not comparable, Gaines’ sense of anti-authoritarianism went a long way in shaping MAD’s ethos—and making it attractive to Prohías. On July 12th, 1960, two months and change after he came to the U.S., Prohías visited MAD HQ on Lafayette Street. He brought his daughter Marta with him because her English was better than his. It happened to be her 14th birthday.
The so-called “MAD-men,” in their recollections of this initial meeting, stress instant infatuation with Prohías’ work; Marta tells a slightly different story. According to her, the editors first told her father to take the strip elsewhere, since they didn’t have any openings at the moment. He explained that he had created Spy vs. Spy specifically for MAD and “would not have them published anywhere else,” theatrically beginning to tear up his handiwork in front of them. (They stopped him.) She also says that they asked him to sketch something for them in the room; apparently, it wasn’t the quality of the doodle that convinced them of his talent, but the posture of his hand, two decades of skillful practice revealed in how he held the pencil. Ultimately, Prohías and his daughter walked back out onto the New York City streets having sold three strips for $800—an amount that today would be worth a little more than 10 times that.
Later, Nick Meglin, a former editor at MAD, would recall how Prohías had returned to the office a week later with 10 more strips. “The staff’s initial reaction was ambivalent,” Meglin said. “Didn’t this guy understand the magazine wanted only the few pages we’d bought from his first visit?” After seeing how “diabolically clever” these new installments were, he said, the editors knew they had “stumbled into an ongoing feature.”
Stumbled indeed.
A lot of people don’t really know how to talk about comics. In their readings, content takes priority over context. Even those who understand comics as a unique literary genre see a plotless, virtually wordless screwball strip like Spy vs. Spy and see nothing but clever fireworks. It’s a mindset that’s corrosive to a comic’s integrity. Within this kind of reading, style and storyline are the only things worth taking away from any graphic narrative.
At this point, the usual line would be something like “Spy vs. Spy is a commentary on the meaningless violence and espionage of the Cold War.” Which, like, yeah. But there’s a lot more going on than that, a lot more to the world Prohías has created, even though it’s a world where a phone receiver can be replaced with pistol so a prank call leads to an unplanned suicide. To describe the strip’s virtues in terms of narrative cohesion is to ignore any nuance stemming from the artist’s lived experience.
To talk thoroughly about Spy vs. Spy is to interrogate the anatomy of metaphor. Posited: the power of a good metaphor doesn’t stem from the fact that the metaphorical comparison (eyes as bright as diamonds, a road that winds like a snake, whatever) creates a relationship, but how it transforms that relationship, bringing new richness to both sides of the metaphor. To borrow I.A. Richards’ terminology from The Philosophy of Rhetoric, those sides are the vehicle (the figurative comparison that’s being invoked) and the tenor (the subject that’s being described by said comparison). Ideally, the former wouldn’t merely act as a conduit for the latter. A truly dynamic metaphor becomes smarter and more interesting once you consider each arm of the connection and how they interact. This is why so many political cartoons are boring and stupid regardless of the politics behind them, why they have to label everything so you know what the hell they’re talking about. They focus so much on The Point that they don’t bother making that point in a way that’s engaging for the reader.
Prohías never lost sight of this. Spy vs. Spy is a political cartoon, but it’s not a Political Cartoon. The strip stakes its claim immediately via a single thematic masterstroke—overlaying the blind jingoism and deranged paranoia of Cold War politics onto the endlessly resilient slapstick framework of classic cartoons—and then spends the rest of its existence exploring every facet of that premise by remixing the established formula.
All the elaborate Rube Goldberg-style explosions are an extension of the strip’s central conceit of war and espionage not just as inherently flawed concepts, but inherently flawed subjects of entire interconnected systems of people and places that profit (whether in money or mythmaking or both) from the petty skirmishes of fiendishly devoted underlings. Hollow victories for hollow ideologies.
Think about how many satirical pitfalls Spy vs. Spy avoids simply by the nature of its setup. The spies are obvious stand-ins, but despite the loaded nature of their black and white designations, they aren’t direct send-ups of any particular country or regime. They’re both treacherous and stupid, because the two of them being on the same level better develops the metaphor and subverts the classic Tom/Jerry, Elmer/Bugs, Coyote/Roadrunner dynamic. (Prohías and the editors went so far as to “keep score” of who won and lost in every strip so neither would ever pull ahead.) There’s no overarching plot or story, including even the most basic details of the strip’s presumed “wartime” setting, and whatever lore can be said to exist is thin and deliberately vague.
Spy vs. Spy is truly timeless in a way few things are: while the strip often obsesses over the minutiae of its goofy gadgets, the tech is appropriately farcical, never feeling bogged down in time or place. The whole thing feels as contemporary in the 2020s as it did in the 1960s. The spies can be chasing each other in embassy offices and military bases, sure, but they can also be at sea, in space, walking down the street, chilling at home, engaging in trench warfare, cozy in bed. They can be pilots and cowboys and mad scientists, can be aristocrats and jailbirds and lazy beachgoers. The strip is also a prime example of all-ages content that actually works. The appeal of these original strips isn’t based on watering itself down for the tykes or shoehorning in dirty jokes for the adults, but rather the kind of dynamic storytelling that can be appreciated in pretty much the same way by everyone, regardless of age or perspective.
This flexibility extends beyond the surface-level setup: it’s the idea at the core of the metaphor, and thus at the core of the strip’s wacky mechanics. The typical structure of a Spy vs. Spy strip involves Spy A noticing Spy B’s plan of attack, Spy A developing a counterattack, only for Spy B to have planned for this new plan, revealing the original scheme as a ruse designed to foil Spy A’s predictable response. They aren’t just similar, alike and in constant conflict, but literally identical, twisted inversions of each other that remain one and the same. In my favorite of Prohías’ original strips, both spies decide to paint themselves the same color as their enemy in order to infiltrate the other’s operation. When they meet each other on a street corner, they’re faced only with their own unholy doppelgänger. The last panel shows the spies side by side in therapy, panicked and unsure of who they really are.
It’s not just that their plans only make sense if each knows what the other is going to do at all times because ha ha recognizable cartoon logic—it’s that it only makes sense if each knows what the other is going to do at all times because oh shit, that’s the recognizable self-fulfilling logic of political coercion. All the elaborate Rube Goldberg-style explosions are an extension of the strip’s central conceit of war and espionage not just as inherently flawed concepts, but inherently flawed subjects of entire interconnected systems of people and places that profit (whether in money or mythmaking or both) from the petty skirmishes of fiendishly devoted underlings. Hollow victories for hollow ideologies. To paraphrase Marshall McLuhan, the stupidity is the message.
The spies in Spy vs. Spy are patriots without countries, cursed forever to play out the violent gestures of war without any of the context that distracts from (or justifies) the carnage. In a 2020 Instagram Story, writer Ocean Vuong highlighted two other key components of a good metaphor—namely, that the tenor and vehicle of a metaphorical comparison should have both a sensory connection and a logical/emotional connection. In this way, Spy vs. Spy shows us that war is its own perfect reflection, bombs and guns and missiles as both the tactile and logical endpoint of a country’s self-image, death as the only way to define a nation. It’s not an accident that all the TOP SECRET intel the spies try to steal from each other are blueprints for more weapons.
You might say I’m thinking way too hard about this. Black Spy once fed gunpowder to a chicken and White Spy’s house blew up when he tried to make breakfast with the egg it laid, chill out. But it’s worth noting that Prohías’ work was always thoroughly researched despite its simplicity: in Cuba, on top of devouring newspapers and radio broadcasts everyday to stay up-to-date on current events, he maintained contacts at the American embassy who gave him info about various political dealings. He kept archives on many figures, including Castro, in order to weave what he learned into his comics. The message of his work was never just “war bad.” Sergio Aragonés, a fellow Spanish-speaking cartoonist and one of his closest friends at MAD, says that Prohías would read entire books about specific military operations to get ideas for Spy vs. Spy, refining them and refining them until they “would arrive at a sublime simplification.” Aragonés also notes that Prohías would regularly present “a half dozen” strips for “every one the editors accepted,” strips he says were “equally researched” and “equally good.” “Presenting” these strips involved Prohías drawing highly detailed 8.5-x-11-inch sketches that, barring ink, were basically finished, ensuring his ideas would come across to the editors without use of his limited English. Once he got the go-ahead, he’d redraw the entire strip in MAD’s extra large 13.5-x-18.25-inch format before inking it. Prohías’ process was thoughtful and rigorous, is what I’m saying. The simple, unpretentious presentation belied all the intricate work that went into its development.
The spies in Spy vs. Spy are patriots without countries, cursed forever to play out the violent gestures of war without any of the context that distracts from (or justifies) the carnage.
The central metaphor wouldn’t work if the mechanics of the comics itself weren’t up to par. Luckily, the strips are engaging as hell: frenetic yet fluid, complicated without being overly complex, punchy and relatively easy to follow while also rewarding multiple close reads. It’s amazing how much detail is in these original strips, the way lines vary in thickness to add dimension to even the simplest objects, how much the designs of the batshit weaponry are steeped in plausible engineering consistent enough to foreshadow twists for particularly keen readers. As involved as the spies’ schemes got, the strips always maintained a level of sparseness: the comics never have more than eight panels, and oftentimes the stand-alone title gags that begin the strips’ section (the so-called “Joke and Dagger Dept.”) are more complex than the strips themselves. Prohías knew exactly what to include in every panel to convey all the proper information to keep the reader on their toes. And to do this all with no dialogue, virtually no words save for the occasional label or sound effect? Unreal.
What his work reminds me of the most, weirdly enough, is certain examples of post-punk manga. Katsuhiro Otomo of Akira fame, Taiyō Matsumoto’s Tekkonkinkreet, even dudes like Junji Ito or Tite Kubo. Vastly different tones, cultures, and genre expectations aside, they all deal in masterful, hyper-detailed black and white art that remains next to impossible to replicate or adapt in a one-to-one capacity. This is why the various animated adaptations of Spy vs. Spy are so disappointing. The detailed staging of Prohías’ work is perfect for telling his stories in four to eight “frames,” but having to render the moments between panels only highlights how flat the rest of the short is by comparison. It might only take 30 seconds to diligently read any given strip, but seeing that same strip play out in 30 seconds of real time feels unnatural.
Shockingly, my preferred adaptation is a Mountain Dew TV ad campaign that ran in 2004. As depressing as the whole enterprise is, the fact that the five shorts are live action, the fact that they combine 2D facial animation and practical effects, forces the creators to completely restructure the ideas behind Prohías’ strips. They shot a black and white set in color, and the spies were played by talented performers, one of which was a former Cirque du Soleil member. They move with exaggerated conspiratorial energy, speaking dubbed-in French gibberish as they navigate a vacant, not-quite-cartoon world. Throw in the clanking quasi-industrial soundtrack, the obvious soda cameos, and the fact that the editors would pull frames from the footage to lend a heightened jerkiness to the actors’ movements, and the effect is surreal and fascinating, lighthearted but also dark and vaguely sinister. It captures the spirit of Prohías’ work while also doing its own thing.
Prohías wrote and drew 241 installments of Spy vs. Spy over the span of 26 years. In 1987, with his health declining due to emphysema, he retired from the strip. His family, his children and their children, lived in Miami; he started visiting more and more often until, one day, he simply never returned to New York. Though he and the mother of his children had gotten divorced in the early ’60s, daughter Marta says that “they became good friends and it was she who cared for him the last ten years of his life.” Prohías died on February 24, 1998.
For a decade after Prohías retired, the strip was taken up by a slew of artists and writers, most notably Don “Duck” Edwing and David Manak—a move Prohías was enthusiastic about, even initially offering feedback on the new comics. And yet, his absence is felt: this period of Spy vs. Spy is middling at best. Manak is a great artist; he would go on to do the pencils for a big chunk of Archie Comics’ Sonic The Hedgehog series in the ’90s, becoming, to a certain generation, yet another unsung comics legend. While his style was much looser and rougher than Prohías’, achieving a kind of hectic complexity that feels like a kid doodling in the compact margins of their school worksheets, Edwing’s concepts were often much more straightforward and boring than past strips. No one could ever really emulate the breezy, clever reversals that had become Prohías’ signature (though one strip involving a Bride of Frankenstein knockoff whose huge cartoon boobs turn out to be bombs is pretty inspired).
In April 1997, Peter Kuper took over the strip to coincide with MAD’s “edgy” rebranding. He worked primarily in layered, spray-painted scenes, drawing out the blocky comics before using an X-ACTO knife to turn them into stencils. We’re back in “anything goes” territory, so the spies appear as old men and tennis players and Roman chariot racers, babies and cavemen and the subject of Hollywood movies. There’s even one strip revolving around White Spy drawing Spy vs. Spy strips. There’s some fun to be had, but Kuper’s work, visually dynamic as it is, relies on a methodical art style that doesn’t really mesh well with the strip’s fast pace. And although they’re ultimately aesthetic nitpicks, I never liked how gory the deaths are in Kuper’s comics, nor how the strips transitioned to being in color. In practice, both these moves wind up feeling antithetical to what makes Spy vs. Spy so interesting: seeing eyeballs and bloody brain matter after one of the now-Caucasian spies gets cut in half by an elevator door makes the whole thing feel wrong.
Later, a few ill-fated spin offs in the early aughts proved that editors and audiences alike had lost track of what made Prohías’ original work so incredible, focusing instead on marketable aesthetics and surface-level narrative. There was Spy vs. Spy Jr., featured in the short-lived publication MAD Kids, a segment that failed to realize that making the spies prank-obsessed grade schoolers was pointless because Spy vs. Spy is already the kid-friendly version of itself, a convenient microcosm of the backward logic that doomed the whole magazine. There was also the Spy vs. Spy Sunday newspaper strip, the apotheosis of Edwing and Manak’s take on the property and a fitting full-circle moment for Prohías’ artistic legacy. It was decent, all things considered, though it was pulled after 39 strips; in 2002, papers got skittish about military violence in the comics section. Already enough on the front page, I suppose.
To highlight the deeper realities of Spy vs. Spy is to mourn not just Prohías’ passing, but the eventual transformation of his creations into marketable grist for the isolating machinery of branded IP. This is what mega-success often looks like within the world of comics: something reaches such a ubiquitous level of notoriety that the “graphic” and the “narrative” become all but divorced. Combine that with the usual death throes of late capitalism, along with technologically sophisticated ways of cutting the artist out of the art-making process, and it becomes obvious why American entertainment has become so steeped in comics and comic book culture while the traditional, single-issue print periodical side of the comic industry is only becoming more and more niche. If an image is the idea of an idea, then a franchise is that second idea in perpetuity, because the image is the thing you can sand down and actually sell. You can’t profit off of history unless you rewrite it.
All of which is to say that Spy vs. Spy is only part of the larger picture. What I’m lamenting isn’t just what became of Prohías and his work, but what became of the entire ecosystem that allowed him and his work to thrive the way it once did. As much of an undeniable institution as it is, MAD hasn’t been culturally relevant since MAD TV. How many years ago was that? The magazine itself transitioned to being a subscription-based collection of reprints, a move that’s as inevitable as it is disappointing. As for Spy vs. Spy itself, what original work Kuper does no longer incorporates his signature spray-paint style, making everything feel that much more flat and obvious. In addition, many of Prohías’ strips have been reprinted in color, a move that has all the urgent necessity of reprinting Beloved in Comic Sans.
And this is all before you get to the real brass tacks: the fact that MAD was first published in 1952, over 70 years ago, and virtually everyone involved with it during the era that made it a cultural force to begin with (save for, at time of writing, Aragonés) has since passed. William Gaines is dead. Harvey Kurtzman is dead. Al Feldstein is dead. Al Jaffee is dead. Wally Wood is dead. Will Elder is Dead. Jack Davis is dead. John Severin is dead. Don Martin is dead. Frank Jacobs is dead. Mort Drucker is dead. Dave Berg is dead. Nick Meglin is dead. Duck Edwing is dead. Antonio Prohías is dead. This isn’t so much a retrospective as it is a kind of elegy.
If an image is the idea of an idea, then a franchise is that second idea in perpetuity, because the image is the thing you can sand down and actually sell. You can’t profit off of history unless you rewrite it.
Though I’m too young to be part of the generation of comic readers who received MAD magazine in its heyday as a revelation, brought into the know as I was by Cartoon Network’s 2010 Robot-Chicken-but-even-more-for-kids-with-the-not-at-all-confusing-title MAD and a particularly dorky father, it can become difficult to convince myself that anyone actually cares. Most of the info that’s publicly available regarding Prohías and his work is contained in two books, Spy vs. Spy: The Complete Casebook and Spy vs. Spy 2: The Joke and Dagger Files, omnibus volumes that collect Prohías’ original run and a sizable chunk of the interstitial strips respectively.
The comics are all well preserved, as is all the behind-the-scenes production info, but the collections themselves are startlingly haphazard. Though released some years apart, they both feel like they were thrown together in a weekend, compelled not to restore Prohías to “the folk hero status he so justly deserves,” as the first book’s intro claims, but to take advantage of the timing of the aforementioned “edgy” relaunch. It’s everywhere you look, this weird, half-assed disconnect. J.J. Abrams of all people wrote the forward for the second book, a piece that’s about the same length as his bio in which he hand-wrings about being a braggart before bragging about owning the original artwork of the first Spy vs. Spy strip. The first book doesn’t even have a table of contents, despite having several essays sprinkled throughout to break up the comics. The pieces that aren’t written by Aragonés or Prohías’ daughter contain little emotional weight. They all read like everyone was told their piece would be the introduction, so the same stories and information get shared and re-shared over and over. In the second book, Kuper seems bent on revealing how little he considers the strip’s larger concepts, like when he says that a joke idea for a strip involves Black Spy being “forced to close his military industrial complex” as if it’s a car door or a pizza place at the local mall. Outside of the comics themselves, both books feel lifeless, propped up, almost vaguely disrespectful. In the first book’s acknowledgments, editor Charles Kochman reveals that the collection’s cover was “cobbled together from bits and pieces of Prohías’ panels — a hand from one page, a bomb from another.”
The collections and their lackluster historical perspective highlight the dark irony of Prohías’ success, the way the idea of an idea can come to grow well beyond intimate, personal context in which the original work is created. A 1983 interview with Prohías in The Miami Herald contains what is probably the most well-known quote about the originals of Spy vs. Spy: “The sweetest revenge has been turning Fidel’s accusation of me as a spy into a money making venture.”
In one of Kuper’s strips, White Spy can’t sleep. He’s haunted by nightmares of Black Spy stabbing him in the back. He visits a psychiatrist, an obvious Freud stand-in, and explains everything, at which point the psychiatrist explains the various facets of his dream: the knife represents his dysfunctional parents: the door both spies come out of represents repressed sexuality: Black Spy is his inner child’s alter ego: and the city itself represents social, religious, and economic stress. White Spy is healed! Trauma fully processed, he’s giddy and vibrant as he disposes of his bombs and his guns and his grenades, Freud looking on, approval hovering on the edges of his bearded lips. White Spy shakes his hand and leaves the office, whistling and—perhaps for the first time—filled with hope. Freud then takes off his face, revealing himself to be Black Spy in disguise. He stabs White Spy in the back.
I guess some things never change.
Gyasi Hall is a writer and critic from Columbus, Ohio. Their essays “Alas, Poor Fhoul” and “Eminem Drop-Kicked Me in This Dream I Had” were both nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and their debut poetry chapbook, Flight of the Mothman: An Autobiography, was published by The Operating System in Spring 2019. Their work can be found or is forthcoming in Guernica, Lit Hub, The Iowa Review, and The Black Warrior Review, among others. They received their MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the University of Iowa, and they are currently working on a book about Black people and comics.
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Five decades on, what happened to Mitchel Weiser and Bonnie Bickwit, two teenagers on their way to a massive rock concert, remains a mystery. In the ’70s, before there was the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, or the Amber Alert system, or the citizen work of internet sleuths in our digital and social media era, the loved ones of missing persons only had law enforcement to rely on. And in 1973, when Mitchel and Bonnie vanished, the Sullivan County officials who handled the case failed at every turn. Greenberg pens a gripping piece recounting the teens’ disappearance and the unsuccessful efforts over the decades to find out what happened to them.
But in 1973, Mitchel’s and Bonnie’s families had nowhere to turn. With no help from police and no private groups to support them, the families soon ran out of money and resources. Bonnie’s mother, Raye, anguished and exasperated, sought help from psychics. (One told her she “saw” the teens lying in a gravel pit.)
The hunt for Mitchel and Bonnie soon faded, as heartbroken friends and family tried to move on with their lives. Inevitably, the story faded from the public and the press.
In 1984, Mitchel’s parents moved to Arizona due to his father’s asthma. But they continued to pay $2.39 every month to New York’s telephone company to keep their name and Arizona telephone number in the Brooklyn phone directory — for when their son would return.
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