Journalist and former New York Post editor David Kaufman joins Quillette’s Zoe Booth to discuss his viral essay, The Art of Middle Eastern Pillow Talk, in which he recounts an unexpected romantic encounter with a Palestinian man that leads to a frank, civil conversation about Zionism and “genocide” in the aftermath of October 7th.

Jewish-Palestinian Pillow Talk

Amir and I had very different ideas about which side had committed a ‘genocide.’ But it didn’t stop us from being civil.

QuilletteDavid Christopher Kaufman

They also explore the politics of civility and why New York politician Zohran Mamdani has become a symbol of post-October 7th populism. Along the way, Kaufman reflects on fatherhood, race, sexuality, and what it means to speak across ideological lines in an increasingly polarised age.

Transcript

Zoe Booth: So let’s start perhaps with your piece because that’s what I’m most excited about. And “excited” is the right term, because it’s a very sexy piece. Could you explain to our audience a little about your piece and what prompted it?

DK: Okay. I had a corporate job for a long time, working at the New York Post, so I had to toe the line, be as respectable as possible, and also honour the fact that I have children. But I left that job and felt like it was time to write my truth—or write about things I found more interesting. Even though what I’d been writing about was interesting, it was largely about Israel, Zionism, antisemitism, and the inner workings of global governments.

This summer, I found myself home one night on a hook-up app. It wasn’t Grindr, but something similar. I connected with this guy—we’ll call him Amir, as I do in the story. Amir is one of those names that could be both Hebrew and Arabic. So I bid him a shalom. He said, “No, I’m not Israeli. I’m Palestinian.” So I bid him a salaam—“nice to meet you” in Arabic. He was a little awkward, but he said, "Oh, it’s no big deal. Happens all the time.”

He had me over and we had a very nice time together. Afterwards, in that post-coital moment, he suddenly started talking about the genocide. I thought, “Oh boy, here we go. I knew it was too good to be true.”

ZB: Did you feel like it was going to come? As soon as you realised he was Palestinian, did you think, “Ah, this is going to get heated”?

DK: No, that didn’t seem fair, although perhaps I was being naïve. But no, we hadn’t had a political conversation. It happened while we were lying there. Suddenly he said—after I’d spoken about my children—“So many of my fellow Palestinians, gay and straight, feel this need to have children because we’ve lost so many in the genocide.”

That’s how it happened. A very unexpected and precise way of introducing the topic. I thought, “Okay. That’s interesting. Not sure what to do about this.” I have a friend who’s been in this situation a few times. He’s much more confrontational. But Amir was a nice guy. There was no need to bear arms.

ZB: Do you think he was purposely provoking you with the term genocide?

DK: No. That’s what’s so interesting. I was intrigued—impressed, even—by the confidence with which he used that phrase. There was no hesitation or self-reflection, as if he assumed I would be on board, that I’d affirm and promote his worldview.

But he found himself in bed with the wrong Jew.

ZB: Is that because in New York there are so many Jews for Palestine—anti-Zionist Jews?

DK: I don’t think he thought I was Jewish.

ZB: He didn’t know?

DK: We’d never discussed it. There’d been no reason to. Most people don’t assume I’m Jewish. But it doesn’t really matter—so many people in general believe in the genocide narrative. It’s become so accepted in a certain class.

Among a certain type. And I guess my outward appearance doesn’t necessarily match my inner reality. We ended up in this interesting position, which I actually saw as an opportunity.

ZB: I would argue it’s not even a certain class anymore. I think it’s the only acceptable opinion to have about Israel. You just have to. I grew up in a working-class town in Australia. Most people hadn’t heard of Israel until October 2023. Since then, they’ve marinated in this narrative and propaganda. Now they say it like it’s nothing. And it’s so hurtful—especially to those who’ve lived through real genocide and the Holocaust.

DK: Of course. In the US, working-class rural communities might be less inclined to even think about the issue. Here, in New York, it’s the economic and cosmopolitan elite—of which I am on the periphery, and so is someone like Amir. Among a certain educated, globetrotting, ethnically ambiguous realm—of which I somehow fit into—it’s become the default to say there’s genocide.

It used to be fringe. Since October 7th, it’s been weaponised. Institutionalised, in some ways, by the lack of a crackdown by authorities. It’s permeated the discourse. And what’s most concerning, as I said, is that Amir didn’t seem to think there was anything brazen about what he was saying. He used it like small talk. I can’t imagine before October 6th, 2023, someone referring to Israel as a genocide nation without people being up in arms. Now it’s just: how else would you say it?

ZB: It’s true. I’m not Jewish, but my fiancé is. I’ve lost a lot of friends since October 7th. The silver lining is that I’ve made amazing new ones—many Jewish, not all. Lots of really kind non-Jewish people who aren’t terror sympathisers. But in every social setting, we wonder: will this be an issue? That we love Israel? Not necessarily the government—but the country.

DK: I don’t know if we’re quite there yet in New York. Maybe in the circles I move in. But yes, the kinds of stories you mention aren’t rare. What’s changed is the acceptability of disparaging a minority community—a murdered, imperilled one.

That became part of the conversation with Amir, as it continued. Back to the genocide—he kept using the term. What was interesting was the way he framed it as an obligation. As if there was a radical notion that Palestinians must have children to repopulate.

And I said to him, “That’s what people say in Israel, too—about repopulating after the Holocaust.”

It struck me how much of the Palestinian narrative is aggressively claimed as original and authentic—but is actually a replication of what’s come before.

ZB: Islam in general too.

DK: I’m not going to comment. But what’s insidious about this strategy is that it’s so easily parroted by Hamas surrogates and their movement globally. I did a few critical pieces on Ta-Nehisi Coates’s book—The Message—which was released a couple of summers ago. The book was inane, poorly thought out. I called it the “mind cramp of the twenty-first century,” and I stand by it.

He wrote about visiting Palestinian communities in the Midwest—particularly in Dearborn—and about their lost dialects and the uniqueness of their exile. All I could think was: that’s what Jews do when they speak Yiddish. It’s what black people do when they speak colloquial Black English. It’s what all diasporic groups do.

It’s not unique to Palestinians. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter—but the reverence with which it’s presented, the elevation of it—it’s all derivative. I’ve never seen a movement so indebted to, and shaped by, its so-called oppressor. That’s what’s crazy about it.

ZB: The writer who encapsulates this for me is Pascal Bruckner. He wrote The Tyranny of Guilt. There’s a chapter on Holocaust inversion. He doesn’t use the word inversion, but he describes how the Shoah represents the clearest example of human evil, and that cultural power has been co-opted by other groups.

DK: Exactly. That’s why they use the term genocide—to provoke, to incite, to weaponise that moral capital. And that’s what was so interesting about Amir. Eventually, I said, “If you want to have a conversation about the genocide, let’s have it. But I want you to know I’m Jewish. I’ve spent time in Israel. I’ve had Israeli boyfriends. You’re not my first Arab Israeli paramour. I’ve been all over the Gulf. I’ve been to the West Bank many times. I also know what I’m talking about.”

I’ve spent time around Israeli Arabs, and gay Israeli Arabs. My former Israeli boyfriend had a long-time partner after me who was an Israeli Arab. I’ve had real friendships with gay Israeli Arabs. We’ve talked a lot about what it means to be gay and Arab in Israel—and what it means to be Arab in Israel more broadly.

And there’s always a power imbalance there. I can admit that. It’s baked into the system. I say that not in an anti-Israel way—quite the opposite. As someone who is proudly Zionist and proudly Jewish, I see it as just part of the country’s imperfections—like most countries have.

But this conversation with Amir was happening in the US, where that imbalance doesn’t exist. We’re not in a Jewish state. That created a dynamic I hadn’t experienced before. I was interested. And also, having worked at the New York Post, and living on the Upper East Side in a bit of a bubble, I haven’t encountered many men like Amir who are ready and willing to try to change my mind.

So I was curious. Curious about what he would say, how he would say it—and how it would all play out. Were we going to end up fist-fighting?

But we didn’t. We talked about the genocide, and I made my position clear. He listened. He really listened. And I listened too. I told him: We can absolutely call it carnage. We can say it’s been politically exploited by Netanyahu to stay in power. That’s not controversial. We can say that there have been failures of control, poor decisions. It’s been a very messy, very bloody war.

But none of that meets the legal or historical definition of genocide. That doesn’t mean civilian deaths aren’t tragic. Every lost life is tragic. And yes, Hamas should be held accountable for causing them.

Even if some of the statistics he cited—65,000, 250,000—are true, they are devastating numbers. Just as it’s devastating that 1,200 Israeli soldiers have died. For a country like Israel, that’s a huge number.

ZB: Do you think he genuinely believes Israel is trying to commit genocide?

DK: That I don’t know. I realised we didn’t get that far in the conversation. It was more about him trying to change my mind—and me making it clear he wasn’t going to. I told him I was as informed as he was.

And I kept repeating: genocide implies intent. And intent has not been demonstrated. I told him, “Genocide begins at home.” If Israel really intended to exterminate Arabs, it would start with its two million Arab citizens.

ZB: Exactly.

DK: And not only has that not happened, but the Arab population in Israel is increasing. That fact alone undermines the genocide claim. I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true. And again, this isn’t to diminish what’s going on. Amir has family in the West Bank. It’s real and personal to him.

That’s part of why I appreciated the conversation. I’d much rather talk to a guy from the West Bank—who’s educated, articulate, intellectually serious—than some virtue-signalling university freshman.

ZB: From the West Bank of New York.

DK: Exactly. I don’t know how to talk to them. I was actually walking past the UN the other day and saw this woman in full keffiyeh—head wrapped, face wrapped, keffiyeh everything—strutting down 44th Street like she owned the city. She was walking towards the UN building.

And I just laughed. She looked like a Halloween costume—like a parody of herself. I muttered, “Hamas,” under my breath. She immediately started swearing at me.

ZB: And you said that to her?

DK: Of course. Her response was profane, as you’d expect.

But going back to Amir—at one point I stopped us mid-conversation and said, “Not to sound corny, but I’m proud of us. This is a very difficult, delicate conversation. And not once have we raised our voices. Not once have we interrupted or been rude. More importantly, we’ve really listened to each other.”

And he totally agreed.

It made me think a lot about civility. In the US, we keep saying we’ve lost civility—that we’re too polarised. But to me, that often just feels like laziness. If Amir and I can be civil to each other in such an awkward, intimate moment—strangers in bed, talking about genocide—then anyone can.

ZB: Especially having that conversation in person after being vulnerable with each other.

It reminded me of a life-changing moment in my early twenties. I was backpacking in Berlin and ended up going home with this very lanky, nebbish Flemish-Belgian guy. Not someone I’d usually go for—but I was on holiday and he was funny.

The next morning, he said, “You’re Australian, right?” I said yes. Then he said, “I’m actually not allowed to go to Australia for a few more years.” And I thought, “What have you done—drugs, smuggling?”

He explained that he had worked for a notorious PUA—pick-up artist—named Julien LeBlanc, who’d been banned from entering Australia for promoting what was seen as rape culture. There was a huge petition at the time, and the Foreign Minister cancelled their visas.

I had actually signed that petition as a young feminist. And here I was, having slept with the enemy.

My heart rate spiked. I was horrified. But then we had a really good conversation. He told me he had autism, had been abused, had severe social anxiety. He couldn’t speak to anyone, let alone women. That’s why he got involved with this dating guru.

DK: An incel whisperer.

ZB: Yes. That’s what he was.

DK: It’s creepy.

ZB: Well, my opinion has changed. Teaching social skills isn’t inherently wrong. It’s the manipulation of vulnerable women that’s problematic. The line is blurred at times. But simply helping someone learn how to talk to women—if done ethically—I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

DK: No, but I think the problem is that you can’t really teach it. That’s the issue. Or you have to awaken something that’s already innate. It’s about confidence—and that’s the first thing beaten out of people. That’s how the bad guys win: they extinguish your confidence. So it’s really hard to come back from that.

ZB: I think especially now—I’m not sure if the gay world has been affected in the same way—but in straight dating culture, especially post–#MeToo, approaching women in public just doesn’t happen as much. Maybe Americans are different, but Australian men don’t do it anymore. They’re very reserved.

DK: I don’t really go to bars—I mostly hang out with my twins. So I don’t know. But I think most people now meet online, and quite quickly. Though again, I’m out of the loop.

ZB: They’re losing their virginities later, socialising less. But anyway—I wanted to say, your piece reminded me that homophobia is still real. I had honestly forgotten. Some of the responses you received were really revealing.

DK: Yes. The Instagram responses were surprisingly homophobic. Twitter—or X, whatever—seemed a little more intelligent. But yes, I was shocked. I don’t usually write personal stuff; I usually write harder-edged political pieces. But I just felt that something needed to jolt the system.

What’s missing so much in this post-October 7th moment is an attempt to personalise the experience. Not to universalise anything—but to make it human. I say in the piece: after our evening, I joked with Amir that we should do it again, and he laughed and said we’d had a great time.

But we both knew it wouldn’t happen again. And I wrote that if we did meet again, we probably wouldn’t be so civil. It’s not about either of us changing our minds. As I say at the end of the piece, Amir wants his people to stop dying—and I do too. I actually want that. I want everyone to stop dying.

For people like me, who are so invested in this moment, the only thing that matters right now is ending the war. That’s it. Whatever it takes.

I had a conversation recently at one of those fancy Jewish events on the Upper East Side. A woman there was very critical of Trump—as am I. But another woman present was more pro-Trump. And I said, “Look, I’ve never had the luxury of being a single-issue voter. I’m black, I’m Jewish, I’m gay, I’m a parent. But right now, the only political thing I care about is ending the war in Gaza.”

If that means Trump manages to do it—then that’s the price. Nothing’s free in this world. And this war has been very costly. The price of ending it might be a triumphant Trump. Maybe even an emperor Trump.

But if he pulls it off... people forget, he has ended conflicts before. He did it in Rwanda and Congo. He claims credit for defusing tensions between India and Pakistan. And in typical Trump fashion, when he was signing that peace accord between Rwanda and Congo, he literally said, “I don’t really know what’s going on with this war, but I’m happy I was able to end it.”

Which is just... wild. But also—it worked.

So yes, if he ends this war—who knows? I’m not there yet. I don’t know that it will happen. I also don’t understand what Hamas gains from agreeing to anything. They’ve never behaved like a party that values their own people.

ZB: Maybe now they have to appear to care, because the spotlight is on them.

DK: Yes, exactly. There’s more pressure. The Qataris are also applying pressure in a way they hadn’t before. Netanyahu even had to apologise to Doha after that last incident. There’s a squeeze on both sides that feels different now.

But still—I don’t get why Hamas would play along. I don’t want to jinx it by putting bad energy out there, because I want it to happen. I can’t imagine what the hostage families are going through. They’re so close to getting their loved ones back—but they’re not back yet.

ZB: I know. I don’t get excited about anything until I see those hostages being released.

DK: Exactly. So anyway, that’s the piece. About this romantic encounter that turned into something deeper. I haven’t sent it to Amir—I thought about it. But I did a good job of concealing his identity. I don’t think he’d want this broadcast.

ZB: It’s a great piece. I also want to talk about what you’re writing now, about Zohran Mamdani. Quillette’s published on him. What’s the latest?

Gentrifying the Intifada

Zohran Mamdani’s brand of socialism appeals to the luxury beliefs of New York’s middle classes. If his preferred policies are implemented, New Yorkers will suffer—and the poorest of them will be most impacted.

QuilletteJohn Aziz

DK: Well, he’s the Democratic frontrunner for mayor—and he’s very anti-Israel, very pro-socialist. Full disclosure: I worked for Eric Adams for a short time, on the comms team. It didn’t go well, obviously.

I’ve written before about why Mamdani is dangerous, but in my Telegraph piece today, I argue that he is essentially the bastard child of October 7th. Though “bastard” might not be the right term—it implies illegitimacy. And the truth is, he’s attained a huge level of legitimacy thanks to what happened on October 7th.

That date opened the floodgates—for antisemitism, for anti-Zionism, for open, brazen hostility. And Mamdani has become the political face of all that. He’s the first chance for these people to do something. To take action. To express their fury at Netanyahu, Israel, the US government. Even at Trump.

And he’s cannily absorbing all of that. He’s unstoppable in his critiques of Israel. And more than one commentator has said there’s something about his popularity that feels hard to understand—especially because, as a local official, he has no power over foreign policy.

He can’t arrest Netanyahu. He can’t set foreign policy. But his supporters project onto him a fantasy that finally, they can take action against “those Zionists.” And he’s more than happy to go along with it.

ZB: It came at the perfect time for him.

DK: Exactly.

ZB: So why do you think he’s more popular than Eric Adams, or Cuomo, or other local Democrats?

DK: He definitely is. He has broad appeal. He’s good-looking—

ZB: Young.

DK: Yes—young, cute. But not intimidatingly so. He’s also very fluent in meme culture and digital communication.

ZB: He feels accessible.

DK: Exactly. He’s the product of the global international elite and moves very comfortably among different kinds of people. He expresses that comfort very authentically—and I think, in many ways, it’s real.

But he’s also evaded scrutiny. He’s slipped through gaffe after gaffe, and the media—especially The New York Times—just doesn’t care. Meanwhile, Adams and Cuomo have had long, messy public careers. There’s plenty of dirt on them—COVID, corruption, all the usual New York political mess.

Mamdani doesn’t have that. He’s new. He’s clean. There’s no record to interrogate. The worst The New York Times can do is follow him on a food run and report on how he eats in restaurants.

ZB: They really did that?

DK: Yes—another one of their glowing, obsessive profiles. That’s masterful media strategy. His team deserves credit. They’ve turned him into this palatable, aw-shucks brand that’s going to be very hard to beat.

ZB: You mention in your piece that you’ve become more of an Israel advocate. Is that a shift you’re planning to continue? What are your plans now that you’re no longer at the Post?

DK: I want to write a book. I’ve been talking about it for years. I’ve even raised it with friends during school drop-offs and parenting chats. So it’s time.

I want to keep writing, but in a braver and more personal way. I was telling a friend the other day: we need to live in a moment of valour. Of bravery. I have stories—so many stories like this. That encounter with Amir wasn’t the first time I’ve had a difficult, intimate moment with an Arab Israeli outside of work. There are more—plenty more.

I’ve lived an experience-rich life, and I want to share that. I’ve always had this ability—and maybe it’s a survival mechanism, because of who I am and where I come from, with so many feet in so many different camps—to find commonalities with people.

That’s what the kids would call intersectional, I suppose. I’m curious about people. And I’m good at getting them to open up. I’ve got a bit of an Oprah quality.

ZB: New York City must be the perfect place for that.

DK: Yes and no. New York is full of people trying to be like other people. They extinguish their uniqueness to blend in. There are people with real stories—but they’re everywhere. You just have to listen.

Now that I’m not working some insane job, I have time to slow down and actually listen to people.

ZB: I wanted to ask about your intersectionality. We often critique identity politics, but your life genuinely bridges so many identities. Your dad is black, from Houston, your mum’s Ashkenazi Jewish, you’re a gay man, and you’re a parent. Do those aspects of your identity connect—or are they separate for you?

DK: No, they’re absolutely connected. You can’t compartmentalise that stuff—it doesn’t work. I grew up in a mostly white, somewhat Jewish environment, so in some ways, that has shaped me more than the black side.

ZB: Did you grow up in New York?

DK: No, in San Francisco.

But especially as I’ve got older—and become a parent—I feel less white. Not more black, necessarily, but definitely more aware of my difference. I’ve never felt white, because I’m not. But I feel more distant from whiteness now.

ZB: What is it about fatherhood that brought that out?

DK: If you want to be a good parent, you have to engage with other parents. You can’t hide. Your kids need to socialise. You want them to be invited to birthday parties—and to have birthday parties that other families attend.

We’re already a gay couple—and we’re divorced. So we already have all these marks against us. And yet, our kids have the best birthday parties. We’re very popular!

But seriously, you have to find points of connection. I live in a predominantly white neighbourhood. That’s how I was raised—amongst white people—so it’s not new. But as I get older, I’m more conscious of how class, economics, and worldview differences play out.

I’m generally the only person like me in these settings. You become hyper-aware of your difference. You can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

Like, my former boyfriend—who I mention in the piece—wasn’t comfortable with my pro-Israel stance. He once asked, “Why is everything in America always about race?” And I realised—he didn’t mean it maliciously. He just didn’t want to live in a world where everything’s about identity. He was a true humanist.

He tried hard to connect with other cultures. He lived in Harlem. He was with me. He wasn’t blind to race.

But people like him often only have white friends. They never have to think about race. It only becomes an issue when someone in the room isn’t white. If everyone is white, it disappears.

ZB: That’s almost a by-product of multiculturalism. You’re confronted with difference every day.

DK: Exactly.

ZB: I think humans are inherently quite racist. I think it’s actually our Western culture—and I say that as a Western chauvinist—that has made racism taboo. Despite what many claim, I don’t think Australia is inherently racist, and my experience in the States hasn’t been that either. Of course, there is racism. But compared to other nations—in Japan, for example—it’s much more blatant elsewhere.

DK: I’m not as sanguine as you. I think America is still a very racist country. And it’s funny because I’m very anti-woke. I hate woke language. It gives me the creeps. I don’t even like the term systemic racism. But I do believe there’s a clear level of white supremacy in America—without question. It’s baked into the culture.

I say that as a critique, not a criticism. Just like there’s male supremacy. I’m a man. I know the privilege I have over women. To deny that would be ridiculous.

ZB: I don’t agree with the male privilege idea, per se. I mean, physically, yeah... men are stronger...

DK: Sure. But it’s not just about strength. Look at how people react when a man walks into a room, or when I help my mother carry something—people assume I’m the authority. Men are simply taken more seriously.

ZB: I get a lot of attention for being a young woman who’s conventionally good-looking and thin. That won’t last forever, obviously. But right now, I feel I have more power than a lot of my male peers.

DK: Maybe. But that’s the complexity of identity-based power dynamics. You don’t always know the outcomes in any individual situation. That’s what makes these dynamics so contested—and so powerful, and often so problematic. Race, gender, power—they’re so scary because we can’t always prove or disprove their effects. It’s a constant intellectual whirlwind.

I’m not living in some fantasy world where all these -isms no longer exist. I see them every day. But I also feel a certain kind of privilege.

And as corny as this sounds, I have an ability to slip between spaces in ways most people can’t. That’s fun. It’s exciting.

Would I prefer the generational wealth of some old white family? Sure. But I’ve travelled a lot, and I’ve found that when I walk into a room and the people are brown, I’m immediately accepted. Even if I can’t speak the language. I’m just part of the club.

That’s made me well-suited to journalism. I can slip into moments other people can’t, and feel comfortable. It gives me access to a world that I find endlessly fascinating.

And I’m constantly amazed by how many stories still haven’t been told. That’s what AI can’t take from us: the limitlessness of imagination.

And that imagination should also allow us to be around people we don’t agree with. That’s what it really comes down to. Right now, we expect to only be around people who think like us. That’s become the cultural standard.

I was at a very fancy book party a couple of weeks ago and ran into a friend I really respect—a very accomplished journalist. We totally disagree on Gaza. But we embraced warmly. Our sons are both named Luca. And I said to her, “I can’t believe we’re still talking to each other.”

People around us were shocked. They couldn’t believe we were being civil. She’s fully invested in the genocide narrative. But there we were, chatting kindly and with respect.

People need to work harder. I don’t agree with her—but I absolutely respect her right to hold that view. In fact, it’s her obligation. She’s been on the front lines of every major global conflict of the past thirty years. She’s been to Gaza many times.

Her name is Janine di Giovanni. She’s a tremendous journalist. I may not agree with her, but I take everything she says seriously. She’s earned that right. If we live in a world where we only talk to people who agree with us, we deny people the dignity of their own experience.

We need to man up—or person up.

ZB: That’s a good point. Some of the best conversations I’ve had since the war was with an Egyptian Christian guy I know. He was born in Australia, but his parents lived through war with Israel. He has real skin in the game.

We had a respectful conversation. He was very anti-Israel, but he listened. I felt respected. And I listened to him. We weren’t going to change each other’s minds, but it was worthwhile.

That contrasts sharply with the friends I’ve lost since October 7th. Mostly white girls from my hometown. They post online to virtue signal, saying all the right things with the right hashtags. They upset me—not because I disagree with them, but because they have strong opinions but no skin in the game, no real understanding of what’s happening.

Because I support Israel, they cut me off. I didn’t end those friendships—they did. I was seen as a social pariah. And I don’t know if I could take them back.

DK: Nor should you. The problem with people who are so uninformed is that they speak with authority. Which shuts down any conversation. You can’t engage with that. There’s no point. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s what made Amir so interesting. He did know what he was talking about. He was an intellectual equal. I had to show him respect—because he deserved it. He knew his stuff. I had to take him seriously.

ZB: Okay, I think we should wrap it up. Do you have anything else you’d like to say to the world?

DK: No—just: hello from New York, and thank you for taking the time to listen. I hope you got something out of it.

ZB: Thank you for writing such a personal, vulnerable piece. Hopefully we’ll see more.

DK: I hope so. Thank you. Thank you.