“I Shall Not Be Moved”: Inside a New York City Sumo Wrestling Club

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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I Never Called Her Momma

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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Peak Badu

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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The Kid Stays in the Picture

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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Lucinda Williams and the Idea of Louisiana

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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The Sea Eagles That Returned to Mull

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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Who Deserves to Eat at Noma?

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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