Facing the Beast, page 15
Dr. Hugh Taylor ’83—Chair of the Department of Obstetrics Gynecology and Reproductive Sciences at Yale School of Medicine, and Chief of Obstetrics and Gynecology at Yale-New Haven Hospital—told the News that there has been no research tying adverse effects in fertility to the Pfizer vaccine.
“There’s no risk to fertility or to a pregnancy,” Taylor said. “But on the other hand, there’s a tremendously increased risk of complications from the virus if you are pregnant when you get COVID. The risk of major complications in pregnancy and even death significantly increase in pregnant women compared to others of the same age.”8
This, even as I’d just presented the evidence—and even as the evidence elsewhere was also terrifyingly mounting. I tried later to contact the Yale Daily News for a retraction of the many falsehoods in their piece—but that incubator of journalism was no longer operating as the press is supposed to do in an open society. You could not call the editor. You could not even leave a message: the phone number connected weirdly to an internal phone message system that could take no messages. I felt so sad that young journalists were now being trained via a publication that was more like Pravda than like the Yale Daily News of the open-society past. What were they learning? To reproduce a party line.
A scary thread throughout the day was the suppression of free thought, and free speech, among students. Phoebe Liou, a University of Connecticut student, described how lonely and desolate she felt after she had decided not to get mRNA vaccinated, and how the universities dangled students’ futures in front of them like a lure on a string. She described students being “switched off” of the CCP-style digital grid of their universities, if they are even late for weekly COVID tests. They are marked as “noncompliant.”
I knew how fearful students were in the face of these mandates and in the face of this CCP-type surveillance and control on campus, because so many parents with kids in the Ivies had told me that their children had begged them not to speak out, not to call the dean, not to advocate for them or to protect them from these injections, in any way.
They feared reprisals, and they were right to do so.
The vibe on this once-vibrant campus was keep your head down.
As I pointed out in my speech, worse even than damage to the students’ bodies, was the damage to their minds, as they bent their instincts for self-preservation to distort themselves to be “compliant” to the pimping of themselves, and to tyranny.
We finally marched across the campus, now truly trespassing. I hoped I would not be arrested, but I was resigned to that possibility. My heart—the heart of a mother—did not let me decline that risk.
That was the saddest part of the day of all. Cross Campus—the green heart of the university—once littered, in my day at least, with students lounging on the grass, reading poetry, debating, laughing, tussling, napping—was entirely empty.
The whole university center was eerily silent. Students and graduate students and even faculty crossed our paths as we marched, but they stole glances at us as if it was Poland in 1972. Furtive, interested, ashamed, hidden.
Ms Liou had described students living in fear, surrounded by bad information, so scared to be “out” on a university with their fears or their questions, so scared to be switched off, ejected, or penalized; and the campus felt indeed like a matrix of fear.
As we ended our march at a local pizzeria, and the organizers posted flyers on a bulletin board, an athlete came up to us. He reminded me of the athletes of my time there—a healthy, happy, robust young man, in that eternal striped polo shirt; smiling and eager and friendly. He had the clear eyes and ruddy skin of vigorous health and the broad shoulders of a rower.
He sought us out—us moms, us dads, us straggling, loving renegades—and asked what he could do to protect himself. He said that Yale’s policies were forcing students not only to submit to the bivalent booster, but also to the flu vaccine. He asked about this with the sincerity of a truly very young man who really needed well-intentioned older adults to inform him and to help him, and we had so little real help to give him.
In his earnest, youthful questions there was the embodiment of this crazy paradox of this situation: this young man who may have been there on an athletic scholarship; a young athlete who cared for, cultivated, and took pride in his strength and in his body’s capacities—was being forced to take something into his body that could harm him forever. For no reason.
And he probably knew it.
* * *
In trafficking cases, you follow the money. At the time of my speech, I had not yet looked at the money trail that would surely be behind such an egregious policy—but I was sure that I would find one. In every case I’ve seen of institutions coercing workers or students or congregants, the institution had taken vast sums of what were in effect bribes—money from the CARES (Coronavirus Aid, Relief, and Economic Security) Act or from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, with strings attached to push “COVID measures.”
When I came home, later, my husband, the intelligence analyst, quickly found the money trail—from a site called TAGGS that tracks government grants, and from Yale’s own documents.9 The crime scene he found is indeed stunning.
Yale receives more from HHS than it does from tuition.
Yale has received $9 billion from HHS since 1998, and $1.7 billion since COVID began in 2020. Yale received $607 million from HHS for 2022 alone—versus the $475 million that the university received from tuition.
In other words, Yale needs HHS more than it needs its own students.
So Yale is trafficking the bodies of its students to please HHS and to keep that spigot open.10
Basically, Yale is a massive sponge for vaccine money. Department after department.
Yale received $3.4 million for “emergency measures” for COVID in regard to students. You can’t tell what that was used for. Yale also got a $1,099,535 grant from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for someone to study COVID-19 mortality by looking at burial sites in Karachi, Pakistan.11 Follow the science!
And! Yale was the site of a Yale Institute for Global Health study that showed that richer countries have less vaccine hesitancy.12 Ka-ching!
But! That’s not all! Yale’s School of Management received money for a study to overcome “vaccine hesitancy.”13
There’s more! Yale received funding for one of the original psychological studies that identified the main forms of emotional manipulation that were then adopted to drive the whole hellish neurosis-scape, the entire destruction of all of our social bonds, over the course of almost three years.
The study summary elaborates on these, as if there is nothing weird or wrong about an unethical experiment in manipulating people’s reactions and perverting their alliances and their free will:
Personal freedom message: . . . how COVID-19 is limiting people’s personal freedom and by working together to get enough people vaccinated society can preserve its personal freedom.
Economic freedom message: . . . how COVID-19 is limiting people’s economic freedom and by working together to get enough people vaccinated society can preserve its economic freedom.
Self-interest message: . . . that COVID-19 presents a real danger to one’s health, even if one is young and healthy. Getting vaccinated against COVID-19 is the best way to prevent oneself from getting sick.
And on, and on, all the way to the “bravery” message, “which describes how firefighters, doctors, and front line medical workers are brave. Those who choose not to get vaccinated against COVID-19 are not brave.”14
But! There’s even more! Yale also received a thirty-five-million-dollar facility—from Pfizer, for Pfizer’s benefit. To do what? It is a fifty-two bed facility—creepy as that sounds—for drug trials.15
Does this mean that humans in New Haven are receiving non-FDA approved experimental drugs, in beds, in a facility owned and operated by Pfizer? And Yale is the facilitator for this? Who are these test subjects—these people? What led them to “volunteer”? What are these substances? What happens if something goes wrong?
It is just one more example of massive price tags accompanying reckless human experimentation; just one more example of Yale now being aligned more fully with pharma and the COVID boondoggle, than with its alumni’s values, or its core mission, or its stated traditions.
* * *
In New Haven, the activists’ plans for the day had ended.
All done with our tasks, we had a lovely lunch at Mory’s, the storied eating place for the university crowd, courtesy of an activist.
For a moment, in the comfortable interior, with the linens on the tables, the pictures on the wall of decades of young Yale athletes in their rows, proud of their young manhood—boys and young men in the 1880s, 1890s, 1900s, 1910s—with the jokey insider references to bulldogs and to the Whiffenpoofs and to campus rites—with the excellent salmon, the Welsh rarebit that remained on the menu from an earlier time—with the two glasses of Sancerre—I felt that warm embracing hug that is Yale’s seduction; I remembered its promise of a lush, rich, cozy, tradition-bolstered, special world.
One that had meaning.
But then, as I got my coat and stepped out into the gray day, and saw the blameless young people who were simply there to get the educations for which they had worked so hard, for which their parents had slaved—young people who were standing under a hideous shadow not of their making—the mirage, for that was what it was, vanished.
Yale was a raddled old madam, after all.
Addicted to the money.
And buying and selling, with an icy heart, the bodies of her young.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
How Lies Killed Books
Not long after I found my beloved Yale was trafficking the bodies of students, I stumbled into hipster Brooklyn—alongside of literary Manhattan—frozen in an amber of denial and silence.
There was a restored state of freedom that no one would discuss.
I’d wandered the cute little boîtes and trendy underground, hand-pulled-noodle, postmodern food courts, with mixed emotions.
There were the chic young moms with babies in strollers, both of them breathing freely in the chill air. There were slouching Millennials, with every demographic likelihood of having been masky and COVID-culty, now enjoying their freedom to assemble at will, to flirt and to window-shop, to stroll and to chat and to try on new sweaters in person at UNIQLO.
Many of these folks, no doubt, would have been repelled, from 2020 to the present, by people like my brothers and sisters in arms, and by me; as we struggled in the trenches of the liberty movement.
Some of them may have called us antivaxxers, extremists, insurrectionists; selfish, “Trumpers,” or whatever other nonsense was the epithet of the day.
Some of them may have wanted to lock down harder, and lock us down harder.
My brothers and sisters in the freedom movement, though we lost employment, savings, status, and affiliations, fought every day—for these very folks; we fought for everyone; we fought so that some day, these young moms could indeed stroll with their babies, breathing fresh air; so that these slouching Millennials could one day indeed wander at will, not “locked down” still, not “mandated” any longer, and not living in fear of an internment camp.
It was bittersweet, seeing this demographic so chill, so relaxed, so back to “normal”—many of whom had been once so oblivious of, or so actively disrespectful of, the sacrifices we on the outside of society had waged for their very freedom.
Who knows where they would be now, if it were not for our combat on their behalf?
Still without their rights regained, like Canada? Still “mandated,” like Canada? Still scared to speak, scared of having bank accounts frozen, scared of losing licenses, scared of being beaten in protests, forbidden to travel without dangerous injections—like Canada?
We are still not entirely free in the US, though we regained many of our freedoms. Not because the evildoers wanted to give them back, but because my brothers and sisters fought hard, strategically, bitterly, and furiously, for all of this liberty that I witnessed in front of me, on that almost-spring day on the crowded, tumultuous Fulton Avenue.
It was bittersweet to know that these people would never witness us, or acknowledge what we did for them and their children; let alone thank us; let alone apologize to people like me for the years in which they were just fine with folks like us being banished to the outer edges of society, to eat in the cold streets of New York like animals, or made jobless, or ostracized.
In addition to the dissonance of seeing people who had been perfectly okay with discriminating against the very people who had fought to return to them the liberties they now enjoyed, I suffered a sense of disorientation at realizing that there was a giant cognitive hole in the middle of contemporary culture.
The staffers at the Brooklyn branch of McNally Jackson Books, an independent bookstore that had for years been a stalwart outpost of free-thinking publishing, were still masked, against all reason. I walked in with some trepidation.
Peacefully, faces covered, three years and running, they stacked books on the shelves.
I was astonished, as I wandered the well-stocked aisles. Independent bookstores usually reflect the burning issues in a culture at that given time.
But—now—nothing.
It takes about two years to write a book and about a year to publish one. It was surely time for the important new books from public intellectuals, about the world-historical years through which we had just lived, to appear.
But—no.
In the center of an altar to literate culture, it was as if the years 2020 to 2022 simply did not exist and had never existed.
This can’t be possible, I thought. This all—the “pandemic,” lockdowns, denial of education for children, forced masking, forced vaccinations, mandates, a crashed economy—globally—as an aggregate, was of course the most important thing ever to have happened to us as a generation of intellectuals.
I kept on searching the stacks. Nothing.
I checked “The 10 Best Nonfiction Books of 2022” in Time.1
None had to do with the pandemic policies or the lockdowns or the mandated mRNA injections into billions of humans.
I surveyed the lanes lined with books, perplexed and saddened.
Surely the wonderful novelists of my generation, astute observers of the contemporary scene—Jennifer Egan, Rebecca Miller—would have written their Great American Novels about the mania that swept over the globe—the one that provided once-in-a-century fodder for fiction writers?
No—or at least, not yet.
Surely Malcolm Gladwell, author of The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference, the distinguished nonfiction observer of group dynamics, would have tracked how a psychotic delusion had intoxicated nations?
No, nothing.
Wouldn’t Samantha Power, author of “A Problem from Hell”: America in the Age of Genocide, have exposed the pandemic policies that sent millions of children into starvation unto death?
Nothing.
Of course Michael Eric Dyson, brilliant and brave commentator on race in America, author most recently of Tears We Cannot Stop: A Sermon to White America, would have written an excoriating exposé of how pandemic policies in the US drove brown and black children into even greater learning deficits and drained millions from small business owners of color?
No, nothing at all.
How about Susan Faludi, respected feminist author of Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women? Surely she would have addressed how decades of women’s professional advancement were overturned by lockdown policies that drove women out of the workforce because someone had to watch the kids stranded at home?
No.
Undoubtedly Robert Reich, longtime champion of working people, author of The System: Who Rigged It, How We Fix It, would have analyzed the greatest wealth transfer in modern history?
Nothing there.
Certainly Michael Moore, author of Downsize This! Random Threats from an Unarmed American, who for decades amplified the voices of working men and women left behind in rustbelt America, would have likewise assailed the flow of wealth in the “pandemic” era from the locked-down, “distanced,” forbidden-to-work working class, to tech CEOs and pharma shills and their oligarch friends?
Nothing to see.
I could go on and on.
From some of the other important public intellectuals whom I know or whom I have followed for decades—and I do not mean to shame anyone needlessly, so I won’t name them—there were indeed some new books.
There were books on walks through the city.
There were books on “difficult conversations.”
There were books on growing up with unusual parents.
There were books on how meaningful animals are, and how wondrous is their world.
Public intellectuals produced a lot of new books on eating more vegetables.
The bizarre thing about this moment in culture, is that the really important journalism, and the really important nonfiction books about the history, the racial and gender injustice, the economics, the public policy, of the pandemic years—are being written by nonwriters; people who are trained as doctors, medical researchers, lawyers, politicians, and activists.
And, for the most part, their books are not displayed or even stocked in bookstores like McNally Jackson.
So there is a massive void in the central thought process of our culture.
The courageous nonwriters have stepped in to tell the truth, because the famous writers, for the most part, can’t.
Or won’t. Or, for whatever reason, didn’t.
This is because the public intellectuals are by necessity, for the most part, AWOL to the truth-telling demands of this time.
You cannot be a public intellectual whose work is alive if you have participated in manufacturing, or even accepting quietly, State-run lies.
The work of the cultural elite of every tyranny, from Nazi Germany to Stalin’s USSR, reveals this fact.
