Special Feature — January 20, 2017, 12:01 pm

The Forty-Fifth President

Our ongoing coverage of Donald Trump’s presidency

Photograph (detail) by Philip Montgomery

Photograph (detail) by Philip Montgomery

Index
CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

    Matthew Sherrill
Publisher’s Note
TRUMP THE MALEFICENT
Trump’s vocational training is strict and pitiless
    John R. MacArthur
Editor’s Notebook
MOURNING IN AMERICA
Trump’s election
    James Marcus
Trump: A Resister’s Guide
THE DREAM OF THE ENEMY
   
    Corey Robin
AMERICAN NIGHTMARE     Wesley Yang
TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT     Tim Barker
LIBIDINAL POLITICS     Katrina Forrester
HYMN TO HARM CITY     Lawrence Jackson
TERRORIST AND ALIEN     Nimmi Gowrinathan and Valeria Luiselli
LESSONS FROM THE LAST FIGHT     Sarah Schulman
DEMOCRACY HOW?     Celina Su
IN END TIME     Simone White
LETTER TO SILICON VALLEY     Kate Crawford
Browsings
THE FIRST DAY
Scenes from Donald Trump’s inauguration
    Philip Montgomery
THE INDEFENSIBLE
Terror victims on Trump’s Muslim ban
    Sulome Anderson
 
DREAM ON
Being a DACA enrollee in Trump’s America
    Aviva Stahl
 
ON THE BORDER
The illustrated oral history of a Tibetan refugee
    Jason Novak
 
HAWKS AND DOVES
Scenes U.S. detention centers
    Jason Novak
 
CUT AND FOLD
A family detention center playset
    Jason Novak
 
CROWD CONTROL
A weekend of alternative estimations
    Betsy Morais
 
THE TRUMPTINI
Drinking in Trump’s America
    Betsy Morais
 
TRUMP’S PARTY
Election night at Trump’s victory party
    Joe Kloc
 
Public Record
TOWER OF BABBLE
 
    Joe Kloc

 

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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I first heard the name Barack Obama in the spring of 2004, while visiting my mother in Chicago. As we sat around the kitchen table early one spring morning, I noticed a handsome studio portrait among the pictures, lists, cards, and other totems of family life fastened to the refrigerator door. “Who’s the guy with the ears?” I asked, assuming he was some distant relative or family friend I didn’t know or else had forgotten. “Barack Obama,” she answered with a broad smile. “He’s running for Senate, but he’s going to be the first black president.”

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