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https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/12/why-enes-kanter-freedom-speaks/620940/

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When Turkey's leader came after me and my family, the United States welcomed me with open arms.

When I first arrived in the United States, I had to adjust to a new language, new norms, and new traditions. But I was perhaps most stunned by a simple comment a teammate made. He criticized President Barack Obama, which I feared could have landed him in prison. He smiled and said: "This isn't Turkey, brother. You have the freedom to say whatever you want."

Americans might find the thought absurd, but the threat of prison is all too real for those living under authoritarian rule around the world. Since Recep Tayyip Erdoğan became president of Turkey in 2014, after more than a decade as prime minister, at least 12,881 people have been convicted of the crime of insulting the president. Thousands have been sent to prison, including children, for offenses as trivial as posting something on social media that might hurt the feelings of an emotionally fragile dictator.

Over the past five years, Erdoğan has all but stamped out free expression in Turkey. He's made Turkey one of the world's worst jailers of journalists, imprisoning hundreds. Erdoğan's regime has shut down more than 160 media outlets and hundreds of human-rights groups. Turkey's dystopian new internet law gives the regime complete control over users' data and enables online censorship. A current proposal would criminalize the spreading of so-called fake news online with up to five years in prison. Erdoğan has targeted every defender of freedom in my country. His regime has persecuted, jailed, and even tortured tens of thousands of educators, lawyers, judges, public officials, and activists after labeling them "terrorists." And it has targeted me.
From the December 2021 issue: The bad guys are winning
Erdoğan went after my family because I dared to speak up. He forced my parents to publicly disown me. The words in a handwritten note from my dad in 2016 cut me to my core: "With a feeling of shame, I apologize to our president and the Turkish people for having such a son." My siblings were blocked from employment. My dad was fired, later jailed, and then ultimately released in 2020. But he emerged from his cell a completely different person, unable to speak about his experiences. I have not seen or spoken with my parents since 2015. Any contact with me could have them arrested.

I could have fallen victim to Turkey's ruthless campaign of transnational repression as well. Erdoğan's regime is infamous for hunting down dissidents across the globe. In 2017, on a basketball trip to Indonesia, I received a tip to leave the country immediately, to avoid a suspected kidnapping attempt by Turkish agents. On the next leg of our trip, in Europe, I was informed by border control that Turkey had revoked my citizenship. I would later learn that the regime had also issued an international arrest warrant against me.

I was stranded. I had no family. I had no nationality. I had no home.

That's when America welcomed me with open arms.

This country has given me all the opportunities in the world. Friends, teammates, journalists, politicians, and activists became my new family, united in our struggle for justice, equality, human rights, and democracy. When I started the process of becoming an American citizen, I realized that life is bigger than basketball. I decided to dedicate the power and privilege of my platform to the causes that matter-to be a voice for the voiceless.

I listened to victims and stood in solidarity with the oppressed. I marched for Black lives. I prayed with Tibetan Buddhists. I stood by democracy activists from Hong Kong and Taiwan. I heard from Uyghurs who had lost relatives or survived the torture of China's concentration camps. I fought against all forms of hate. I took to the streets. I took to the podium. I raised awareness. I used my platform. I used my voice.
Jemele Hill: Enes Kanter Freedom is letting himself be used
Human rights and democracy are under threat. Around the globe, authoritarian strongmen are getting stronger. Yet far too many celebrities, athletes, and corporations still choose their money over their morals. Speaking up for victims of authoritarian violence has somehow become controversial, just because it might alienate the perpetrators. It shouldn't take the disappearance of a former No. 1 world-tennis star for some of us to make a statement. Freedom is not about staying silent in the face of a tyrannical dictatorship that commits genocide against the Uyghurs because you prefer to preserve your business deals.

For six long years, I was without a home. I know what it's like for a people to have their freedom stripped away. And I know what it's like to have my own freedom stripped away. But this week, I'm reclaiming my Freedom. I just became an American citizen, and I'm making America and its freedoms a part of my very identity.

I'm overwhelmed with emotion just writing these words: I, Enes Kanter Freedom, am proud to be a citizen of the United States of America, the land of the free, and home of the brave.

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When Turkey's leader came after me and my family, the United States welcomed me with open arms. When I first arrived in the United States, I had to adjust to a new language, new norms, and new traditions. But I was perhaps most stunned by a simple comment a teammate made.

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Ten Things I've Been Meaning to Say to You | Jason Reynolds

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Ten Things I've Been Meaning to Say to You | Jason Reynolds

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Dear Reader,

If you are a young person - by young person I mean 19 and younger, though young-at-hearters aren't excluded. Nor are older people. Or old people. But I'm speaking primarily to young people. Anyway, if you are a young person, the following are 10 things I've been meaning to say to you:

1. I don't believe social media is going to lead to the apocalypse. I know many people my age do, even though many of us are as caught up in its webbing as you. As a matter of fact, my generation is the generation that created it, and pushed it on you, almost force-feeding you avatars and touchscreens since you were born, only to criticize you for engaging with them, not as accessories, but as appendages. And the way we criticize is by saying (ad nauseam) that social media, and your obsession with it, will lead to the apocalypse. Well, I've never believed that. And quite frankly, I have other ideas about what will lead to the apocalypse, and it turns out it has more to do with people two or three times your age. What I do think, though, is that social media might, if we're not careful, turn an entire generation into a selfie. A generation that only looks at itself, contrived, posed to present a false perfection, won't be able to avoid or learn from the mistakes of the generations that have come before it. So... sometimes, let me take a photo with you. Just sometimes. You can put a filter on it and everything. And if not, that's okay. Then just let me take it. Let me snap the picture. Let me be involved in framing you. Let me help capture you in your best light. Maybe even tag me in the post. But please, please, please don't force me to photobomb you, because I'll do it and all you'll do is hit delete.

2. There's no way you can want to do away with injustice unless you want to do away with all of it. Remember that. You can't be anti-racist, but tease people about their weight. You can't fight for women's rights, and talk about your classmates who learn differently. I know, I know, you can't fight every fight. Except... you can. Accept... you can.

3. There's a difference between being irreverent and irresponsible. Remember this forever.

4. There are no such things as safe spaces. I'm sorry. I wish there were. I really, really do. But the world won't always be kind. As a matter fact, a lot of you already know this. So, if you are fortunate to be in a space - school, team, etc. - that has created an emotional safeness for you, use it, not just as place to relax and be yourself, but also as a place to develop relationships and fortified friendships that can recreate that warmth and comfort when school and/or the season are over. When the wolves of the world are growling. I use my mother for this. She reminds me that I'm built for this. She reminds me that I'm a wolf trap.

5. Speaking of mothers, text yours. A simple "I love you" goes a long way. She's trying. She's always trying.

6. Continue to push back. Bang your fists. Scream until your throats are stripped. Cry out. Walk out. March. Fight, fight, fight what you don't agree with, even if adults don't agree with you. Even if adults call you crybabies. Because that kind of emotion, that kind of fearlessness and gumption, that kind of empathetic desire is a seed that will grow you into adults who actually care about the world. This is true "social media."

7. Sing your song, do your dance, talk your talk. I sure did. We sure did.

8. Remember courage is often less about what you do, and more about what you don't. I know, that's a little corny, but many of you know how difficult this is. When I was younger the conversation around peer pressure was such a snoozer. Like... come on. It was always, "If so-and-so jumps off a bridge, are you going to jump?" And of course I would always say, "Of course not! That don't even make no sense." But then... when I got to that bridge, and I saw so-and-so jump, I started to ask myself, "Well... did he live?" And, "Is there water down there? Because if so, why not jump?" Yeah... don't jump. Trust me. It ain't worth it.

9. But when it comes to your dreams, JUMP. Always jump!

10. I like you. A lot. I know, that's kind of a soft landing, but this thing was supposed to be 10 things I've been meaning to tell you, and I always tell you I love you, but I rarely tell you how much I like you. So... I like you. You're wild sometimes, and a little all over the place, but, hey, so am I. But that's easy for me to say, because, well, I'm not your teacher. So... let's start this one over.

10. Be gentle with your teachers. Especially the ones you know are in it for you. And I know you know who those teachers are, because one of the things I like most about you is your ability to discern which adults actually care. So, I'm talking about those teachers. The ones who acknowledge your presence and reward your trying. Remember, they too are trying. They really, really are. Sometimes more than you know.

Jason Reynolds is a New York Times bestselling author, a Newbery Award Honoree, a Printz Award Honoree, National Book Award Honoree, a Kirkus Award winner, a two-time Walter Dean Myers Award winner, an NAACP Image Award Winner, and the recipient of multiple Coretta Scott King honors. The American Booksellers Association's 2017 spokesperson for Indies First, his many books include When I Was the Greatest, Boy in the Black Suit, All American Boys (cowritten with Brendan Kiely), As Brave as You, For Every One, the Track series (, , , and ), and Long Way Down, which received both a Newbery Honor and a Printz Honor. He lives in Washington, DC. You can find his ramblings at JasonWritesBooks.com.

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Ten Things I've Been Meaning to Say to You by Jason Reynolds

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Dear Reader, If you are a young person - by young person I mean 19 and younger, though young-at-hearters aren't excluded. Nor are older people. Or old people. But I'm speaking primarily to young people. Anyway, if you are a young person, the following are 10 things I've been meaning to say to you: 1.

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F9 The Fast Saga Review-Furiouser and Curiouser

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F9 The Fast Saga Review-Furiouser and Curiouser

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‘F9_ The Fast Saga’ Review_ Furiouser and Curiouser - WSJ.pdf

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I Recommend Eating Chips (Published 2021)

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When our horizons are narrow, junk food — shelf-stable, reliably flavored and yet endlessly unique — offers us a taste of infinity.

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https://www.bonappetit.com/story/elizabeth-acevedo-mama-rosa-lasagna

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This is All on the Table, a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community.

It was my job to trim the ruffled edges off the boiled lasagna sheets. My mother-a cook so particular she once remade the chicken at a friend's dinner party because it looked "too pale"-does not abide by anything but straight-edged pasta. "It's the only way to get an even texture," she'd say, and that was important when it came to lasagna de carne, the centerpiece of our family's annual New Year's Eve feast.

From a young age I considered cooking to be Mami's domain and hers alone. Oh, I'd chop beets for the ensalada rusa and grate carrots for the macaroni salad, but I was just following orders until she turned her back and I could return to my novels and video games.

Every New Year's Eve my father would buy almonds and chestnuts, a well-worn nutcracker at the ready. There would be ice-cold beers and Manischewitz, his preferred holiday wine. With Mami's alchemy filling the air-garlicky tomatoes smothered in bubbly cheese-we'd begin getting ready. Hair in rollers, button-down shirts, a family of pomp and circumstance even if the only place we'd party was our tiny two-bedroom in Morningside Heights. We greeted the new year as a unit: eyes on the TV, incense in the air, stomachs full.

Then came New Year's Eve 2009. The year we unbecame who we'd been.

Back home in New York for winter break, I was with a few sorority sisters when my eldest sibling called: My brother Rob was in the hospital. He'd had another episode.

For over a year we'd all watched as Rob struggled. He'd become silent. Fascinated with dark rooms. Full of angry, baseless accusations. He was never violent, but harm comes in many forms. Doctors from New York-Presbyterian told us that they believed it was paranoid schizophrenia.

We are a Dominican-ass family, quite superstitious. Pennies on our foreheads to stop nosebleeds. Sacraments to guarantee entry to heaven. My mother still strongly believes dreams tell us when someone's going to die. But we had no experience dealing with mental health.

My parents called 911 on December 30. I joined them at the hospital, then went home while they handled the paperwork. The kitchen was in disarray; Mami had been preparing beef for the lasagna when things got hectic. She'd managed to get it into the fridge, but that was all.

I don't know why I did it. We did not have much to celebrate. There were no chestnuts, no music. Perhaps I thought the only thing holding us loosely together was the idea of a better day, a better decade, better care that might result in better health for a beloved. Perhaps I just wanted to scramble toward normal, grasp onto a bit of comfort and routine. So I tried to remember the basic steps: the boiling, the removal of crinkles, the vamping up of jarred tomato sauce. The layers and layers. Alone, I stacked my grief. I cooked through tears. By the time my mother returned from the hospital, I was elbow deep in ground beef.

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Despite the Heaviness I Carried, I Kept Stirring

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This is All on the Table , a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community. It was my job to trim the ruffled edges off the boiled lasagna sheets. My mother-a cook so particular she once remade the chicken at a friend's dinner party because it looked "too pale"-does not abide by anything but straight-edged pasta.

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12 Things I Learned from Life and Writing

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12 Things I Learned from Life and Writing

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My seven-year-old grandson sleeps just down the hall from me, and he wakes up a lot of mornings and he says, "You know, this could be the best day ever." And other times, in the middle of the night, he calls out in a tremulous voice, "Nana, will you ever get sick and die?"

I think this pretty much says it for me and for most of the people I know, that we're a mixed grill of happy anticipation and dread. So I sat down a few days before my 61st birthday,and I decided to compile a list of everything I know for sure. There's so little truth in the popular culture, and it's good to be sure of a few things.

For instance, I am no longer 47, although this is the age I feel, and the age I like to think of myself as being. My friend Paul used to say in his late 70s that he felt like a young man with something really wrong with him.

Our true person is outside of time and space, but looking at the paperwork, I can, in fact, see that I was born in 1954. My inside self is outside of time and space. It doesn't have an age. I'm every age I've ever been, and so are you, although I can't help mentioning as an aside that it might have been helpful if I hadn't followed the skin care rules of the '60s, which involved getting as much sun as possible while slathered in baby oil and basking in the glow of a tinfoil reflector shield.

It was so liberating, though, to face the truth that I was no longer in the last throes of middle age, that I decided to write down every single true thing I know. People feel really doomed and overwhelmed these days, and they keep asking me what's true. So I hope that my list of things I'm almost positive about might offer some basic operating instructions to anyone who is feeling really overwhelmed or beleaguered.

Number one: the first and truest thing is that all truth is a paradox. Life is both a precious, unfathomably beautiful gift, and it's impossible here, on the incarnational side of things. It's been a very bad match for those of us who were born extremely sensitive.It's so hard and weird that we sometimes wonder if we're being punked. It's filled simultaneously with heartbreaking sweetness and beauty, desperate poverty, floods and babies and acne and Mozart, all swirled together. I don't think it's an ideal system.

Number two: almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes -- including you.

Three: there is almost nothing outside of you that will help in any kind of lasting way,unless you're waiting for an organ. You can't buy, achieve or date serenity and peace of mind. This is the most horrible truth, and I so resent it. But it's an inside job, and we can't arrange peace or lasting improvement for the people we love most in the world.They have to find their own ways, their own answers. You can't run alongside your grown children with sunscreen and ChapStick on their hero's journey. You have to release them.It's disrespectful not to. And if it's someone else's problem, you probably don't have the answer, anyway.

Our help is usually not very helpful. Our help is often toxic. And help is the sunny side of control. Stop helping so much. Don't get your help and goodness all over everybody.

This brings us to number four: everyone is screwed up, broken, clingy and scared, even the people who seem to have it most together. They are much more like you than you would believe, so try not to compare your insides to other people's outsides. It will only make you worse than you already are.

Also, you can't save, fix or rescue any of them or get anyone sober. What helped me get clean and sober 30 years ago was the catastrophe of my behavior and thinking. So I asked some sober friends for help, and I turned to a higher power. One acronym for God is the "gift of desperation," G-O-D, or as a sober friend put it, by the end I was deteriorating faster than I could lower my standards.

So God might mean, in this case, "me running out of any more good ideas."

While fixing and saving and trying to rescue is futile, radical self-care is quantum, and it radiates out from you into the atmosphere like a little fresh air. It's a huge gift to the world. When people respond by saying, "Well, isn't she full of herself," just smile obliquely like Mona Lisa and make both of you a nice cup of tea. Being full of affection for one's goofy, self-centered, cranky, annoying self is home. It's where world peace begins.

Number five: chocolate with 75 percent cacao is not actually a food.

Its best use is as a bait in snake traps or to balance the legs of wobbly chairs. It was never meant to be considered an edible.

Number six --

writing. Every writer you know writes really terrible first drafts, but they keep their butt in the chair. That's the secret of life. That's probably the main difference between you and them. They just do it. They do it by prearrangement with themselves. They do it as a debt of honor. They tell stories that come through them one day at a time, little by little.When my older brother was in fourth grade, he had a term paper on birds due the next day, and he hadn't started. So my dad sat down with him with an Audubon book, paper, pencils and brads -- for those of you who have gotten a little less young and remember brads -- and he said to my brother, "Just take it bird by bird, buddy. Just read about pelicans and then write about pelicans in your own voice. And then find out about chickadees, and tell us about them in your own voice. And then geese."

So the two most important things about writing are: bird by bird and really god-awful first drafts. If you don't know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours, and you get to tell it. If people wanted you to write more warmly about them, they should've behaved better.

You're going to feel like hell if you wake up someday and you never wrote the stuff that is tugging on the sleeves of your heart: your stories, memories, visions and songs -- your truth, your version of things -- in your own voice. That's really all you have to offer us,and that's also why you were born.

Seven: publication and temporary creative successes are something you have to recover from. They kill as many people as not. They will hurt, damage and change you in ways you cannot imagine. The most degraded and evil people I've ever known are male writers who've had huge best sellers. And yet, returning to number one, that all truth is paradox, it's also a miracle to get your work published, to get your stories read and heard. Just try to bust yourself gently of the fantasy that publication will heal you, that it will fill the Swiss-cheesy holes inside of you. It can't. It won't. But writing can. So can singing in a choir or a bluegrass band. So can painting community murals or birding or fostering old dogs that no one else will.

Number eight: families. Families are hard, hard, hard, no matter how cherished and astonishing they may also be. Again, see number one.

At family gatherings where you suddenly feel homicidal or suicidal --remember that in all cases, it's a miracle that any of us, specifically, were conceived and born. Earth is forgiveness school. It begins with forgiving yourself, and then you might as well start at the dinner table. That way, you can do this work in comfortable pants.

When William Blake said that we are here to learn to endure the beams of love, he knew that your family would be an intimate part of this, even as you want to run screaming for your cute little life. But I promise you are up to it. You can do it, Cinderella, you can do it,and you will be amazed.

Nine: food. Try to do a little better. I think you know what I mean.

Number 10 --grace. Grace is spiritual WD-40, or water wings. The mystery of grace is that God loves Henry Kissinger and Vladimir Putin and me exactly as much as He or She loves your new grandchild. Go figure.

The movement of grace is what changes us, heals us and heals our world. To summon grace, say, "Help," and then buckle up. Grace finds you exactly where you are, but it doesn't leave you where it found you. And grace won't look like Casper the Friendly Ghost, regrettably. But the phone will ring or the mail will come and then against all odds, you'll get your sense of humor about yourself back. Laughter really is carbonated holiness. It helps us breathe again and again and gives us back to ourselves, and this gives us faith in life and each other. And remember -- grace always bats last.

Eleven: God just means goodness. It's really not all that scary. It means the divine or a loving, animating intelligence, or, as we learned from the great "Deteriorata," "the cosmic muffin." A good name for God is: "Not me." Emerson said that the happiest person on Earth is the one who learns from nature the lessons of worship. So go outside a lot and look up. My pastor said you can trap bees on the bottom of mason jars without lidsbecause they don't look up, so they just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. Go outside. Look up. Secret of life.

And finally: death. Number 12. Wow and yikes. It's so hard to bear when the few people you cannot live without die. You'll never get over these losses, and no matter what the culture says, you're not supposed to. We Christians like to think of death as a major change of address, but in any case, the person will live again fully in your heart if you don't seal it off. Like Leonard Cohen said, "There are cracks in everything, and that's how the light gets in." And that's how we feel our people again fully alive.

Also, the people will make you laugh out loud at the most inconvenient times, and that's the great good news. But their absence will also be a lifelong nightmare of homesickness for you. Grief and friends, time and tears will heal you to some extent. Tears will bathe and baptize and hydrate and moisturize you and the ground on which you walk.

Do you know the first thing that God says to Moses? He says, "Take off your shoes."Because this is holy ground, all evidence to the contrary. It's hard to believe, but it's the truest thing I know. When you're a little bit older, like my tiny personal self, you realize that death is as sacred as birth. And don't worry -- get on with your life. Almost every single death is easy and gentle with the very best people surrounding you for as long as you need. You won't be alone. They'll help you cross over to whatever awaits us. As Ram Dass said, "When all is said and done, we're really just all walking each other home."

I think that's it, but if I think of anything else, I'll let you know.

Thank you.

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12 Truths I Learned From Life And Writing, By Anne Lamott | DailyGood

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My seven-year-old grandson sleeps just down the hall from me, and he wakes up a lot of mornings and he says, "You know, this could be the best day ever." And other times, in the middle of the night, he calls out in a tremulous voice, "Nana, will you ever get sick and die?"

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"The Giving Tree" at Fifty: Sadder Than I Remembered | Ruth Margalit

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"The Giving Tree" at Fifty: Sadder Than I Remembered | Ruth Margalit

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A few weeks ago, rummaging around the Strand, I came across a fiftieth-anniversary edition of Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree." It had the fern-green cover familiar from childhood, the same oversized dimensions, the same appealing sketch on its front-a squiggly drawing of a tall tree, its top spilling off the page, and a little boy, looking up at it. But instead of experiencing a pleasant rush of nostalgia, I was dismayed. A strange thing happens when we encounter a book we used to love and suddenly find it charmless; the feeling is one of puzzled dissociation. Was it really me who once cherished this book?

The beginning of the story is innocuous enough: a boy climbs a tree, swings from her branches, and devours her apples (I'd never noticed that the tree was a "she"). "And the tree was happy," goes the refrain. But then time passes, and the boy forgets about her. One day, the boy, now a young man, returns, asking for money. Not having any to offer him, the tree is "happy" to give him her apples to sell. She is likewise "happy" to give him her branches, and later her trunk, until there is nothing left of her but an old stump, which the old man, or boy, proceeds to sit on.

A little Googling corroborated my own distaste. "The Giving Tree" ranks high on both "favorite" and "least favorite" lists of children's books, and is the subject of many online invectives. One blog post, " Why I Hate The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein," argues that the book encourages selfishness, narcissism, and codependency. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, environmental activists rue the boy's pillaging of the tree and, by extension, the environment. William Cole, who turned down the manuscript when he was an editor at Simon & Schuster (Silverstein took it to Harper & Row), was troubled by its portrayal of parenthood: "My interpretation is that that was one dum-dum of a tree, giving everything and expecting nothing in return." More recently, the children's-book author Laurel Snyder said, "When you give a new mother ten copies of 'The Giving Tree,' it does send a message to the mother that we are supposed to be this person."

Still, it's difficult to know whether Silverstein, who died of a heart attack in 1999, after keeping out of the public eye for more than two decades, meant for us to read the book so conclusively. His biography and body of work suggest a subtler, and, in the end, perhaps an even more troubling, way of looking at it.

***

Silverstein detested stories with happy endings. As he once put it, "The child asks, 'Why don't I have this happiness thing you're telling me about?'" His own up-by-the-bootstraps childhood was marked by insecurity and self-doubt. Born in 1930 on the northwest side of Chicago, Sheldon Allan Silverstein grew up in a second-story apartment crammed with relatives. His parents, an immigrant father from Eastern Europe and a Chicago-born mother, opened an unsuccessful bakery on the heels of the Great Depression. Though Silverstein's mother encouraged his early knack for drawing, his father made it clear that he was expected to join the flailing family business. But Silverstein couldn't sit still. He was a distracted student, who may have also suffered from dyslexia (at fifteen, he misspelled his middle name on his Social Security application). As Lisa Rogak writes in "A Boy Named Shel," an engaging 2011 biography of the man, "His attention span ran from nil to nonexistent."

Silverstein discovered his passion for drawing early, and it became his refuge from his increasingly wrathful father. After a few unsuccessful attempts at college-he never graduated, explaining, "I didn't get laid much and I didn't learn much. Those are the two worst things that can happen to a guy"-Silverstein's listlessness and love of cartoons found an unexpected outlet in the military, which he joined in 1953, serving on the newspaper of a troopship in Japan. His break came three years later when, discharged and unemployed, he visited the offices of a fledgling magazine for men and met its editor, himself an avid cartoonist: Hugh Hefner.

So began Silverstein's long association with Playboy, where he published not only cartoons and illustrations but also ongoing travelogues from such places as Tokyo, Paris, and Moscow, and became a regular fixture at the seedily infamous Playboy Mansion. By Rogak's count, he bedded hundreds, if not thousands, of women. He was raggedly attractive (though not particularly handsome): his beard full, his brows furrowed, his half smile gap-toothed, his hair long (later he was completely bald). He liked to wear pirate shirts and a pair of shiny corduroys that, according to a female friend, "made him look like a filing cabinet." During those Playboy years, Silverstein shuttled back and forth between Chicago and downtown New York; he frequented folk clubs and began making his own music-scribbling away songs on the back of cocktail napkins and tablecloths, performing folk and jazz numbers in a low, gravelly voice.

He was wildly prolific and prolifically wild. On a visit to Denmark, Silverstein signed on as the vocalist of a group called Papa Bue's Bearded Viking New Orleans Danish Jazz Band. He was the mastermind behind Johnny Cash's Grammy-winning song "A Boy Named Sue." He palled around with Norman Mailer and Dustin Hoffman, and reportedly advised a young Bob Dylan on lyrics for what turned out to be "Blood on the Tracks." "He was our own personal beatnik," his friend, the actress Lois Nettleton, tells Rogak. Silverstein himself once remarked of his itinerant lifestyle, "Comfortable shoes and the freedom to leave are the two most important things in life."

As becomes clear from reading Rogak's biography, Silverstein never intended to write or draw for children. He was often impatient around kids and, Rogak claims, "made no secret of the contempt he felt" for most children's books. "Hell, a kid's already scared of being small and insignificant," he once said. "So what does E. B. White give them? A mouse who's afraid of being flushed down the toilet or rolled up in a window shade and a spider who's getting ready to die." But writing kids' books was the complete opposite of the work he was doing for Playboy and, maybe for that reason, and with the prodding of a savvy editor, he decided to try his hand at it.

The result was a classic Silversteinian burst of productivity: in 1964 alone, he published three children's books and one book for adults. Among them was "The Giving Tree," whose breakaway success caught by surprise not only his publishers, who had printed a modest run of seven thousand copies, but also Silverstein himself, who claimed it had no message. Sales of "The Giving Tree" doubled every year in the decade following its publication; they have since topped five million copies worldwide. But Silverstein was continually asked to defend the book, and this seems to have sapped his energy. "It's just a relationship between two people; one gives and the other takes," he would often repeat. It would take him another decade to complete his next children's book, the fiercely imagined poetry collection "Where the Sidewalk Ends," and, by 1975, he had almost entirely stopped talking to the press. (Silverstein never married and never wanted to have kids. But circumstances changed the year he turned forty, when one of his former Mansion "playmates" gave birth to a daughter; in 1982, the girl, Shoshanna, died of a brain aneurysm at age eleven, a tragedy from which Silverstein is said to have never recovered. Two years later, a son, Matthew, was born.)

"Where the Sidewalk Ends" was banned from many libraries across the country for years after its publication: it was said to promote such diverse ills as drug use, suicide, death, the occult, violence, disrespect for authority, disrespect for truth, and rebellion against parents. It also happened to be a book that perfectly encapsulated the idiosyncratic concerns of childhood. One poem, called "Eighteen Flavors," is about a person who "labels all the flavors on their ice cream cone before accidentally dropping them all." Another is about an acrobat hanging from a trapeze who asks for "just one thing, please / As we float through the breeze - Don't sneeze." The book easily and sensitively inhabited a child's perspective.

A moralistic reading of "The Giving Tree" is challenged again and again by Silverstein's other writing for children, as he consistently ended his books on a note of ambiguity. Consider "The Missing Piece," another Silverstein classic. Published in 1976, "The Missing Piece" tells the story of a circle that's missing a wedge. The circle goes in search of this lost piece and, after some tribulations, finds it. The story could have easily ended there-the circle made whole!-but it doesn't. Instead, the newly spiffy circle begins to roll too fast, and its view of the world becomes blurred. "That's the madness of the book," Silverstein said, "the disturbing part of it."

If madness is what he was after, then the "The Giving Tree" might be read as another expression of it, perhaps a cousin to a song Silverstein wrote, called " Fuck 'Em," in which he cheerfully exclaims, "Hey, a woman come around and handed me a line / About a lot of little orphan kids sufferin' and dyin' / Shit, I give her a quarter, cause one of 'em might be mine." Rogak, his biographer, has her own explanation for "The Giving Tree" 's portrayal of self-abnegation-one that echoes his beatnik years: "Given his disgust with the me-first attitude among the folksingers and other artists in the Village who were creating art as a form of self-analysis, it almost sounds like he wrote it as an experiment, a reaction to their own mushiness."

The dismay I felt on rereading the book soon gave way to something else. Finding that a childhood favorite wasn't at all what I remembered carried with it a peculiar thrill, a kind of scientific proof that I'd grown up and changed. And, if I've changed, perhaps "The Giving Tree" has, too. What, for example, does Silverstein mean with his injection of the flat, repetitive "happy"? He wasn't one for happiness. In fact, the book's illustrations seem to undermine this very conceit. "And the tree was happy," we are told, but all we see is a sorry stump and a hunched old man staring forlornly into the distance. Is she happy? We have to ask. Is he? Or maybe the book isn't about love or happiness at all, but a lament about the passing of time, an unsentimental view of physical decay, a withering away. Maybe it's enough to take Silverstein's own reading of it. "It's about a boy and a tree," he once said. "It has a pretty sad ending."

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"The Giving Tree" at Fifty: Sadder Than I Remembered

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A few weeks ago, rummaging around the Strand, I came across a fiftieth-anniversary edition of Shel Silverstein's "The Giving Tree." It had the fern-green cover familiar from childhood, the same oversized dimensions, the same appealing sketch on its front-a squiggly drawing of a tall tree, its top spilling off the page, and a little boy, looking up at it.

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Letter of Recommendation: Spam (Published 2019)

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A Filipino staple passed down through the generations since World War II.

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It's an oldie but a goodie.

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Letter of Recommendation: Crying at Movies (Published 2018)

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Weeping in a darkened theater can help you learn to feel more deeply. Especially if you happen to be a man.

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My Mother's Fried Chicken Was a Link to My Past--and My Daughter's Future | Kwame Alexander

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My Mother's Fried Chicken Was a Link to My Past--and My Daughter's Future | Kwame Alexander

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Frying chicken right is like riding a bike backward. Or writing a sonnet. It's hard, sometimes elusive-but in the face of loss, it can also be life-giving.

This is All on the Table, a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community.

The last meal I shared with my mother was in a capacious hospital room in Chesapeake, Virginia. It was breakfast time and the sun was a carefree soul galloping through the window like a wild horse. Having not eaten much in the 48 hours since she'd been admitted with complications of sarcoidosis, she was quite hungry. So I fed her. Spooned the applesauce. Placed in her mouth a few ice chips from the water glass she couldn't finish (crunching ice always gratified her). That was 2017. The year my heart broke into a million jagged puzzle pieces.

None of us is ever prepared for death. When a great tree falls, the birds, with no branch to perch on, scatter. Looking for a new home. In the four years since my graceful mother has passed, I've been searching. Thumbing through old scrapbooks, sprinkling her ashes in places we lived and traveled- Brooklyn and St. Croix and Fayetteville, North Carolina-all in an effort to find some solace. To find a new home.

In 2018, when the American School in London invited me to become its inaugural Innovator-in-Residence, I welcomed the opportunity for that solace, along with a professional reboot. I'd gotten into a writing rhythm that, while successful, felt almost too comfortable. The process of coming up with a beginning, middle, and end was akin to riding a bike for me, and I could cruise through a story, arms akimbo, head to the wind. I needed to challenge my storytelling normal, become inspired in new and exciting ways, learn to pop a wheelie.

Part of moving yourself forward in a life-giving way is to take the things from the past that have helped shape and mold you and use them as anchors to the future. My own vision of what lay ahead came during two farewell dinners hosted by friends in the summer of 2019. First, award-winning children's book illustrator Melissa Sweet crafted homemade lobster rolls the size of my arms in her palsy-walsy Maine home. Then I drove south to dine alfresco-grilled snapper, cheddar biscuits, Summer in a Bottle rosé-in celebration of Jacqueline Woodson's latest novel at her family's country estate. These two women not only burned in the kitchen, but laughed and told stories and answered phone calls and helped with homework and listened. At the same time. With the cool and calm of a river flowing in a forest. Just like my mother used to do. Determined to do the same, the new Kwame would find his way home not only by moving to London but by cooking.

In my first few weeks there, I figured out how to catch a bus to Maida Vale, write at an outdoor café while sipping English breakfast tea, and take refuge at the bottom of the London Library when it rained. I also learned to make some pretty tasty pasta-fettuccine Alfredo, spinach lasagna-that my finicky 11-year-old daughter, Samayah, actually enjoyed.

As the weeks turned to months, I discovered the best walking route to Samayah's new school. I learned how to listen and acknowledge her cries for independence and smile when she grabbed my hand and held it, our fingers braided like the cornrows her mother designed. I learned how to answer her not-so-random questions about why can't we get a car or do you have to walk me the whole way or can we have a break from pasta... and make Granny's fried chicken for dinner?

"If you read good books, when you write, good books will come out of you," wrote Natalie Goldberg in Writing Down the Bones. Thus, I imagined, if you read good cookbooks, good food would come out of your kitchen. So I immersed myself in a plethora of cooking primers, instructional videos, and blogs. I cooked daily while listening to music, helping Samayah with homework, and just being in the moment. My recipe file fattened. Some meals turned out delicious the first time: Fish chowder. Ghanaian red red. Lobster mac and cheese (which almost didn't happen 'cause lobster meat in London is more expensive than beluga caviar). Others required experimentation: Tuscan bread salad. Blueberry scones. Beer-battered fish. Unfortunately, my buttermilk pancakes looked, and tasted, more like crepes. Fortunately, my daughter loves crepes. But she also loves chicken, and she kept asking me to make it.

During my adolescent summers, my mother often took us to Virginia Beach where we'd spend the day building sandcastles, swimming too far out, and screaming bloody murder when we got bit by a jellyfish. Two things loom large in those memories. One was this: As hungry as we were from playing in the water, we hated getting out of it for lunch because of my mother's belief that one must wait 30 minutes to swim after eating (or face severe cramps due to lack of blood flow to the stomach and thus drown). The other: Once you bit into one of my mother's crispy, juicy fried chicken drumsticks, the complaining stopped. She charmed us.

Until she was five, Samayah was a vegetarian-until we sent her to my mother's for her own summer weekend. As the story goes, Granny packed the three visiting grandchildren into her burgundy Hyundai one Saturday morning and carted them off to Virginia Beach for a day of swimming and sandcastles. Around midday she summoned each of them from the water and handed out brown paper bags full of chicken. When Samayah came home I understood the resoluteness in her smile. "Daddy, I'm not a vegetarian anymore."

Fried chicken was one of my mother's signature dishes, as it was my grandmother's, and her grandmother's before that. Now that I wanted to continue the tradition for my daughter in my modest London kitchen, I needed the recipe. So I called around to my sisters, my aunts, even my father (who only ever lovingly made two dishes, mustard mac and cheese and tad-too-bland baked chicken). But I got the same answer from each of them: There is no recipe. They simply used a little bit of this and a little bit of that and cooked it until it was done. These reveals were often followed by joyous remembrances of picnics and Sunday dinners and family reunions, and every now and then I'd get a clue: Barbara had that cast-iron skillet. Your grandmother used Crisco. The paper bag? They say it's to better coat the chicken, but we only used it 'cause Momma used it. Garlic powder. Paprika. And don't forget the oil has gotta be hot!

This is how I began putting the pieces of my puzzle back together again. I'd go to the butcher down the block and buy six wings and two breasts one day, four thighs and five legs another. Try to remember my mother in the kitchen-her fingers covered in flour, her jubilant singing filling the room, her seasoned spirit. Imagine and reimagine the ingredients in her brown paper bag. See her placing the chicken in her pan, allowing each piece room to breathe. And every time I cooked, I felt a little bit closer to her, perched on a branch of her life.

Frying chicken right can feel like riding a bike backward. Or writing a sonnet. It's hard, sometimes elusive. But there is a form to guide you, and with practice you can find the flow. For me it took a dozen tries, and yet the ecstatic look on my kid's face when she bit into that twelfth and final chicken wing was worth the wait. She got what she'd asked for. So did I. Through cooking I'd reunited with my mother, forged a powerful kinship. It was life-giving.

This one beautiful life is a series of puzzles. If you're fortunate you get someone to show you how they fit together. If you're really lucky, when they're gone, you learn how to let their memory guide you, hug you, gather you. So that when you get sad and unsure-because this new puzzle seems undoable-at least you have the precious memories to feed you while you put the pieces back together and find your way home.

Get the Recipe:

Kwame Alexander is the poet-in-residence at NPR's 'Morning Edition' and cocreator of a Disney+ series based on his Newbery Medal-winning novel, 'The Crossover.'

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My Mother's Fried Chicken Was a Link to My Past-and My Daughter's Future

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Frying chicken right is like riding a bike backward. Or writing a sonnet. It's hard, sometimes elusive-but in the face of loss, it can also be life-giving. This is All on the Table , a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community.

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The Case for Semicolons (Published 2021)

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There are very few opportunities in life to have it both ways; semicolons are the rare instance in which you can; there is absolutely no downside.

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30 Things I Learned Before Turning 30 by Taylor Swift

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30 Things I Learned Before Turning 30 by Taylor Swift

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Taylor Swift reflects on all the things she’s learned leading up to her 30th birthday.

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A story-style essay about why to be kind to customer service workers.

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In the late eighties, my job involved going out in public dressed as a tuxedoed dairy product. Children ran from me.

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A Quick Note on Getting Better at Difficult Things | Ta-Nehisi Coates

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A Quick Note on Getting Better at Difficult Things | Ta-Nehisi Coates

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A Quick Note on Getting Better at Difficult Things

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Feelings of greatness come and go, so savor them.

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Jennifer Lawrence: "Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co-Stars?"

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Jennifer Lawrence: "Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co-Stars?"

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When Lena first brought up the idea of Lenny to me, I was excited. Excited to speak to Lena, who I think is a genius, and excited to start thinking about what to complain about (that's not what she pitched me, it's just what I'm gonna do). When it comes to the subject of feminism, I've remained ever-so-slightly quiet. I don't like joining conversations that feel like they're "trending." I'm even the asshole who didn't do anything about the ice-bucket challenge - which was saving lives - because it started to feel more like a "trend" than a cause. I should have written a check, but I fucking forgot, okay? I'm not perfect. But with a lot of talk comes change, so I want to be honest and open and, fingers crossed, not piss anyone off.

It's hard for me to speak about my experience as a working woman because I can safely say my problems aren't exactly relatable. When the Sony hack happened and I found out how much less I was being paid than the lucky people with dicks, I didn't get mad at Sony. I got mad at myself. I failed as a negotiator because I gave up early. I didn't want to keep fighting over millions of dollars that, frankly, due to two franchises, I don't need. (I told you it wasn't relatable, don't hate me).

But if I'm honest with myself, I would be lying if I didn't say there was an element of wanting to be liked that influenced my decision to close the deal without a real fight. I didn't want to seem "difficult" or "spoiled." At the time, that seemed like a fine idea, until I saw the payroll on the Internet and realized every man I was working with definitely didn't worry about being "difficult" or "spoiled." This could be a young-person thing. It could be a personality thing. I'm sure it's both. But this is an element of my personality that I've been working against for years, and based on the statistics, I don't think I'm the only woman with this issue. Are we socially conditioned to behave this way? We've only been able to vote for what, 90 years? I'm seriously asking - my phone is on the counter and I'm on the couch, so a calculator is obviously out of the question. Could there still be a lingering habit of trying to express our opinions in a certain way that doesn't "offend" or "scare" men?

A few weeks ago at work, I spoke my mind and gave my opinion in a clear and no-bullshit way; no aggression, just blunt. The man I was working with (actually, he was working for me) said, "Whoa! We're all on the same team here!" As if I was yelling at him. I was so shocked because nothing that I said was personal, offensive, or, to be honest, wrong. All I hear and see all day are men speaking their opinions, and I give mine in the same exact manner, and you would have thought I had said something offensive.

I'm over trying to find the "adorable" way to state my opinion and still be likable! Fuck that. I don't think I've ever worked for a man in charge who spent time contemplating what angle he should use to have his voice heard. It's just heard. Jeremy Renner, Christian Bale, and Bradley Cooper all fought and succeeded in negotiating powerful deals for themselves. If anything, I'm sure they were commended for being fierce and tactical, while I was busy worrying about coming across as a brat and not getting my fair share. Again, this might have NOTHING to do with my vagina, but I wasn't completely wrong when another leaked Sony email revealed a producer referring to a fellow lead actress in a negotiation as a "spoiled brat." For some reason, I just can't picture someone saying that about a man.

*Jennifer Lawrence is an Academy Award-winning actress.*

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Jennifer Lawrence: "Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co‑Stars?"

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When Lena first brought up the idea of Lenny to me, I was excited. Excited to speak to Lena, who I think is a genius, and excited to start thinking about what to complain about (that's not what she pitched me, it's just what I'm gonna do).

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Personal essay: How Ramen got me Through Adolescence 

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Personal essay: How Ramen got me Through Adolescence 

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How Ramen Got Me Through Adolescence (Published 2014)

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I had two sources of warmth during the cold middle-school years: a cocoon of books and a bowl of shelf-stable noodles.

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Richard Wagemese

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Personal Essay that was featured in Elle Magazine

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Warning: Language might be an issue. Great for sports fans.

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Getting traded sucks.

Like, I won't lie - I wasn't looking to leave Chicago. I enjoyed playing for the Cubs, enjoyed the city, enjoyed Wrigley..... plus I'd already changed teams last offseason. I wasn't exactly dying to do it twice in a year. So when I saw Jed's name pop up on my caller I.D. over the All-Star break, my heart kind of sank a little. We'd been losing, and I'd heard the same rumors as everyone else - that the Cubs were going to be sellers.

Turns out the rumors were true. Jed thanked me for my time with the club, and told me that the Braves had come after me hard. So they were moving me to Atlanta.

Atlanta??? Man, I was pretty surprised. At the time, the Braves were a game under .500. They were third in the division - 4½ back. And they'd just lost Acuña, an MVP-caliber player, for the rest of the season. In my mind, I was thinking, you know, No offense.... but shouldn't these guys be sellers, too?? I actually remember one of the first things that somebody said to me when I got there: "Don't get too comfortable."

Translation: If things don't turn around, you might be getting traded all over again.

Slowly but surely, though..... things turned around.

It wasn't anything crazy at first. No huge winning streak out of the gate. No dramatic changes. It wasn't like in the movies where the music hits and the team just rips off a bunch of W's. It was more of a gradual thing, you know what I mean? It's like at some point we just started winning a little more than we were losing.

And then it's funny - I remember about a month after the trade, we're a few games over .500 and on a long road trip. And I was playing cards on the plane with some of the pitchers. The plane ride ended, and then from there it's like, the team has two buses: one for pitchers and one for position players. I wanted to keep playing cards with those guys, though - so I hopped in with them instead. And we're on the bus, playing cards, talking trash, you know..... when at some point someone asks me, "Wait. Why are you on the pitchers bus?" And I wasn't really even thinking about it. We were just having a good time, I guess, and I was in one of those moods.

But I said: "Because y'all are the motherf*ckers who are going to win us a World Series."

I think we won like six games in a row after that.

And I'm bringing that story up, not because I'm trying to say that that's what jump-started all of this. Obviously not. We're here because this is one hell of a baseball team - and guys have been playing great when it's mattered most.

But I also think, in terms of looking at success, that sometimes some of the "other stuff" can be underrated.

Like.... baseball seasons are long, man. They're a serious grind. Things can get stale. And I think over the course of a long season, it's stuff like culture, like swagger, like vibes, like whatever you want to call it - it's stuff like that that can actually make a pretty big difference. Stuff like that can get everybody's energy right.

And if there's one thing that I think I've been able to bring to this team, beyond just my bat and my glove, I'd say it's that energy - and that belief: That nothing is as dangerous in baseball as a team with a ton of confidence.

Y'all are the motherf*ckers who are going to win us a World Series.
- Joc Pederson

I'll give you another example real quick. So we're in L.A. for a series near the end of the summer - and my wife has this great stylist there who comes to the house to do hers and the kids' hair. And since I'm around, the stylist asks if I want to do anything with mine. I probably would have just said no.... but then I remember something.

So, back when I was in Chicago, Rizzo had this idea: that halfway through the year, we needed to go blonde. "Trust me, good things happen when you go blonde." Not sure if he fact-checked that, or where it came from, but he'd always be saying it. Then I got traded, though, and he did too, so it never happened. But now flash-forward - it's late August, I'm kind of grinding, not hitting like I should be..... and I remember the blonde thing with Rizzo. So I'm like, alright - why not. I tell my wife's hair stylist, "Let's switch it up." Went blonde.

The guys in the bullpen saw it, and had my walk-up song changed to "The Real Slim Shady." The fans caught on to it, and of course did their thing. The whole team got a kick out of it. And then also..... it kind of worked???

Very next game, I hit a home run off Buehler.

Rizzo texts me right after, thrilled - as if I proved his theory, and we discovered a major breakthrough in science or something. And I'm not saying we did......

But at the same time: It really has just been that kind of season, man.

Like, it's been an incredible run - game in, game out. It's been so many different guys stepping up in so many different moments. It's been us getting MVP-type seasons from Albies and Riley. It's been Soler legitimately carrying us for stretches. It's been Freddie taking Hader deep to send us to the NLCS. It's been Adrianza coming through with that pinch-hit double.... then Eddie hitting the bomb that changed everything. It's been Matzek, in an elimination game, giving us two of the most ridiculous shutdown innings you'll ever see. It's been Will slamming the door on some of the best lineups in baseball. It's been Dansby flashing the glove to get that final out. It's been the entire pitching staff, frankly.

It's been championship-level baseball, up and down the roster.

But when I look back on these last few months, and when I look ahead to this World Series in front of us - what stands out to me, just as much, is the little things.

What stands out to me is the stuff that you can't see in a box score.

It's the front office believing in this group just crazily enough to be buyers at the trade deadline with a team that was under .500. It's our security guys coming up to me during my very first batting practice, and saying how glad they were to have me on board. It's Ian Anderson convincing me to change my walk-up music to "Way 2 Sexy," and then promising, "It's gonna bang." It's the white pearls becoming..... whatever the white pearls have become (shoutout to Gabe, my jeweler). It's "Wine Club," this thing that me and a few guys have started, where after each big playoff win we'll crack open a new bottle. It's Poppy, my three-year-old daughter, running out onto the field after we clinched the pennant and letting me know, "Dada, the Braves won! You played good defense!" It's a couple of former teammates I'm really close to, coming up to me postgame and saying, "Hey - I love you. Now go beat the Astros for us."

And it's the city of Atlanta, being absolutely electric, every single night at Truist, and matching our energy when we've needed it most.

Obviously I don't know what's coming next - it's impossible to predict what's going to happen over these next four, five, six, seven games.

I like our chances, though.

Because, yeah - we might not be a superteam. We might have only won 88 games. We might have had our share of injuries, and slipped below some people's radars, and taken an unconventional path to get to this stage.

But we also just might be those motherf*ckers.

And no one's beat us yet.

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Getting traded sucks. Like, I won't lie - I wasn't looking to leave Chicago. I enjoyed playing for the Cubs, enjoyed the city, enjoyed Wrigley..... plus I'd already changed teams last offseason. I wasn't exactly dying to do it twice in a year. So when I saw Jed's name pop up on my caller I.D.

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Digging in the Trash — THE BITTER SOUTHERNER

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A new kind of magazine for a new kind of South.

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Personal Essay from of a student in the U.S.

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Personal Essay from of a student in the U.S.

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A lot of great personal essays at This I believe. This one makes for a great mentor text.

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https://thisibelieve.org/wp-content/media/audio/TIB_joshua_yuchasz_14338.mp3

What if everyone in the world was exactly alike? What if everyone talked the same, acted the same, listened to the same music, and watched the same T.V. programs?

The world would be extremely dull! I believe it's important to accept people for who they are.

Differences are important and they should be respected. For example, many important people throughout history were considered different, such as Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Harriet Tubman, Peter Tchaikovsky, and Abraham Lincoln. They did great things, but some people thought they were weird, because they had strong feelings about something. I can relate to these people, because I've been in that situation before, many times.

It all started in elementary school when I realized that I wasn't like everyone else. My mom says that I have a tendency of obsessing on certain subjects. Unfortunately, these subjects don't interest other kids my age and they really don't interest my teachers. In fact, my kindergarten teacher said she would scream if I mentioned snakes or lizards one more time, while she was teaching the days of the week. I would get in trouble for not paying attention, and the teasing began.

In third grade, my teacher informed me that I have Asperger's Syndrome, and I said, "So what? Do you know that Godzilla's suit weighs 188 lbs.?:

Later, I asked my mom, "What is Asperger's Syndrome? Am I gonna die?" She said that it's like having blinders on, and that I can only see one thing at a time, and that it's hard to focus on other things. Like, I would tell anyone and everyone that would listen about Godzilla, because my big obsession was, and still is, Godzilla - not a real popular subject with the middle school crowd, and so the teasing continues.

I might be different, because I have different interests than other teenagers, but that doesn't give them the right to be so mean and cruel to me. Kids at Oak Valley make fun of me for liking what I like the most.

People also make fun of me for knowing facts about volcanoes, whales, tornadoes, and many other scientific things. My mom says that she has been able to answer many questions on Jeopardy just by listening to what I have to say, but I've even been ridiculed for being smart.

Maybe someday, I'll become a gene engineer and create the real Godzilla. I can dream, can't I?

Sometimes I wish I were like everyone else...but not really. Because I believe people should be respected for being different. Because we're all different in our own ways.

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By all outward appearances, Joshua Yuchasz is a regular teenager. But his classmates still tease him about the thing that makes him different. Yuchasz believes it’s our differences that deserve respect.

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I walked through the bushes and trees. Along beside the rice paddies. I walked among the green.

A once daily scene from a different past, an old friend.

Four months after the virus began disrupting, then ravaging humanity's routine, my first glimpse of freedom proper. Four months mostly confined to my condo. A sense of normal returned, then snapped away by the latest scare, as living, breathing nodes spread...

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I walked through the bushes and trees. Along beside the rice paddies. I walked among the green. A once daily scene from a different past, an old friend. Four months after the virus began disrupting, then ravaging humanity's routine, my first glimpse of freedom proper. Four months mostly confined to my condo.

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https://brenebrown.com/articles/2018/05/24/the-midlife-unraveling/

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In my late thirties, my intuition had tried to warn me about the possibility of a midlife struggle. I experienced internal rumblings about the meaning and purpose of my life. I was incredibly busy proving myself in all of my different roles (mother, professor, researcher, writer, friend, sister, daughter, wife), so much so that it was difficult for any emotion other than fear to grab my attention. However, I do remember flashes of wondering if I'd always be too afraid to let myself be truly seen and known.

But intuition is a heart thing, and until recently I had steamrolled over most of my heart's caution signs with intellectualizing. In my head, I had always responded to the idea of "midlife angst" by scoffing and coming up with some politically and therapeutically correct way of saying that midlife whining is pathetic. The entire concept of the midlife crisis is bullshit. If you're struggling at midlife, it's because you haven't suffered or sacrificed enough. Quit pissing and moaning, work harder, and suck it up.

As it turns out, I was right about one thing-to call what happens at midlife "a crisis" is bullshit. A crisis is an intense, short-lived, acute, easily identifiable, and defining event that can be controlled and managed.

Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling.

By definition, you can't control or manage an unraveling. You can't cure the midlife unraveling with control any more than the acquisitions, accomplishments, and alpha-parenting of our thirties cured our deep longing for permission to slow down and be imperfect.

Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers in your ear:

I'm not screwing around. All of this pretending and performing-these coping mechanisms that you've developed to protect yourself from feeling inadequate and getting hurt-has to go. Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts. I understand that you needed these protections when you were small. I understand that you believed your armor could help you secure all of the things you needed to feel worthy and lovable, but you're still searching and you're more lost than ever. Time is growing short. There are unexplored adventures ahead of you. You can't live the rest of your life worried about what other people think. You were born worthy of love and belonging. Courage and daring are coursing through your veins. You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It's time to show up and be seen.

If you look at each midlife "event" as a random, stand-alone struggle, you might be lured into believing you're only up against a small constellation of "crises." The truth is that the midlife unraveling is a series of painful nudges strung together by low-grade anxiety and depression, quiet desperation, and an insidious loss of control. By low-grade, quiet, and insidious, I mean it's enough to make you crazy, but seldom enough for people on the outside to validate the struggle or offer you help and respite. It's the dangerous kind of suffering-the kind that allows you to pretend that everything is OK.

We go to work and unload the dishwasher and love our families and get our hair cut. Everything looks pretty normal on the outside. But on the inside we're barely holding it together. We want to reach out, but judgment (the currency of the midlife realm) holds us back. It's a terrible case of cognitive dissonance-the psychologically painful process of trying to hold two competing truths in a mind that was engineered to constantly reduce conflict and minimize dissension (e.g., I'm falling apart and need to slow down and ask for help. Only needy, flaky, unstable people fall apart and ask for help).

It's human nature and brain biology to do whatever it takes to resolve cognitive dissonance-lie, cheat, rationalize, justify, ignore. For most of us, this is where our expertise in managing perception bites us on the ass. We are torn between desperately wanting everyone to see our struggle so that we can stop pretending and desperately doing whatever it takes to make sure no one ever sees anything except what we've edited and approved for posting.

What bubbles up from this internal turmoil is fantasy. We might glance over at a cheap motel while we're driving down the highway and think, I'll just check in and stay there until they come looking for me. Then they'll know I'm losing my mind. Or maybe we're standing in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher when we suddenly find ourselves holding up a glass and wondering, Would my family take this struggle more seriously if I just started hurling all this shit through the window?

Most of us opt out of these choices. We'd have to arrange to let the dog out and have the kids picked up before we checked into the lonely roadside motel. We'd spend hours cleaning up glass and apologizing for our "bad choices" to our temper tantrum-prone toddlers. It just wouldn't be worth it, so most of us just push through until "losing it" is no longer a voluntary fantasy.

Midlife or Midlove

Many scholars have proposed that the struggle at midlife is about the fear that comes with our first true glimpse of mortality. Again, wishful thinking. Midlife is not about the fear of death. Midlife is death. Tearing down the walls that we spent our entire life building is death. Like it or not, at some point during midlife, you're going down, and after that there are only two choices: staying down or enduring rebirth.

It's a painful irony that the very things that may have kept us safe growing up ultimately get in the way of our becoming the parents, partners, and/or people we want to be.

Maybe, like me, you are the perfect pleaser and performer, and now all of that perfection and rule-following is suffocating. Or maybe you work hard to keep people at a safe distance and now the distance has turned into intolerable loneliness. There are also the folks who grew up taking care of everyone else because they had no choice. Their death is having to let go of the caretaking, and their rebirth is learning how to take care of themselves (and work through the pushback that always comes with setting new boundaries).

Whatever the issue, it seems as if we spend the first half of our lives shutting down feelings to stop the hurt and the second half trying to open everything back up to heal the hurt.

Sometimes when the "tear the walls down and submit to death" thing overwhelms me, I find it easier to think about midlife as midlove. After two decades of research on shame, authenticity, and belonging, I'm convinced that loving ourselves is the most difficult and courageous thing we'll ever do. Maybe we've been given a finite amount of time to find that self-love, and midlife is the halfway mark. It's time to let go of the shame and fear and embrace love. Time to fish or cut bait.

I don't think midlife/midlove is on a schedule. I was forty-one when it hit, but I have friends and I've interviewed people who found themselves smack-dab in the middle of the unraveling as early as their mid-thirties and as late as their fifties. The only firm timing for midlife/midlove is that it ends only when we physically die. This is not something you can treat then dismiss. The search for self-love and acceptance is like most of the new ailments that hit at midlife-it's a chronic condition. It may start in midlife, but we have to deal with it for the rest of our lives.

And just in case you think you can blow off the universe the way you did when you were in your twenties and she whispered, "Pay attention," or when you were in your early thirties and she whispered, "Slow down," I assure you that she's much more dogged in midlife. When I tried to ignore her, she made herself very clear: "There are consequences for squandering your gifts. There are penalties for leaving big pieces of your life unlived. You're halfway to dead. Get a move on."

Once the shock of the universe's visits wears off-and you get over thinking, Oh my God! I'd prefer a crisis! -there are several ways to respond:

I hear tell that there are actually people who pull the universe closer, embrace her wisdom, thank her for the opportunity to grow, and calmly walk into the unraveling. I try to spend limited time with these people, so I can't tell you much about how this works.

Another option is to deny that any of this ever happened. Of course, denial is not so easy at this level-it is the universe that we're talking about here. Pretending that midlife is not happening requires active denial, like putting your fingers in your ears and singing, "La-la-la-la-la." As sweet and childlike as that may sound, these folks are normally not so sweet and childlike.

After the ear-plugging and humming, the only way to maintain your denial of the midlife unraveling is to become even more perfect, more certain, and more judgmental. For these folks, allowing just one ounce of uncertainty or doubt or questioning to bubble up could cause rapid, involuntary unraveling. They can't be wrong-their lives could spin out of control. They march through life, teeth and butt cheeks clenched, without flinching and, often, without feeling.

There's also the numbing option. If there's one thing that we've mastered by midlife, it's how to take the edge off of feeling pain and discomfort. We are so good at numbing-eating, drinking, spending, planning, playing online, perfecting, staying really, really busy. If every midlifer who "only drinks a good glass of wine with dinner" stopped drinking, there wouldn't be a vineyard left in business. Unfortunately, what makes midlife different from the other stages that we've managed to survive is that the symptoms don't improve over time. Choosing to numb the midlife unraveling is choosing to numb for the rest of your life.

Last, there's the "no-holds-barred" resistance response. I liken it to existential cage fighting. You and the universe go into the ring and only one person comes out. This, of course, was my option.

When the universe came to me, I listened. And when she was done whispering, I pulled back, looked into her eyes, and spit in her face.

How dare she ask anything of me! I had worked and sacrificed and paid enough. I had spent my life saying "yes" when I wanted to scream, "Hell no! Do it yourself!" I had met every deadline, expectation, and request possible. I had earned every bit of my armor, and I was enraged by the idea of giving it up.

I expected her to walk away like the dejected mother of an angry teenager, but she simply stood in front of me, wiping the spit off her cheek.

We stared at each other for a minute, then I said, "I'm not afraid of you. I know what you're asking and the answer is no. I've spent my entire life building these walls and digging these moats. Do you really think a little whisper is going to intimidate me? Do I strike you as the unraveling type?"

I'm not ornery or rebellious by nature; it's just that I spent thirty years trying to outrun and outsmart vulnerability and uncertainty. The fact that the almighty universe had descended and asked me to turn myself over to her custody didn't mean a damn thing to me. I'm not the surrendering type.

She was quiet.

I didn't back down. I was my own little emotional militia. I put on my most serious game face and said, "I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work. I'm prepared. I've spent a decade researching and writing on shame and vulnerability and all of the hard shit that you throw around to scare people. I'm ready."

She looked back at me with loving eyes, then said, "I'm sorry it has to be this way, but clearly this is how you want to do it. You leave me no choice."

Her calmness was unsettling. I was afraid. She wasn't backing down. So in this moment of sheer terror, I did the only thing I knew how to do when confronted with fear-I bullied her. I gave her a small shove and said, "Then bring it!"

Her loving eyes didn't change one bit. She just looked at me and said, "I will."

When the Universe Brings It

I put up the fight of my life, but I was totally outmatched. The universe knew exactly how to use vulnerability and uncertainty to bring down this perfectionistic shame researcher: a huge, unexpected wallop of professional failure, one devastating and public humiliation after the next, a showdown with God, strained connections with my family, anxiety so severe that I started having dizzy spells, depression, fear, and the thing that pissed me off the most-grace. No matter how hard or far I fell, grace was there to pick me up, dust me off, and shove me back in for some more.

It was an ugly street fight, and even though I got my ass kicked, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. There was a significant amount of pain and loss, but something amazing happened along the way-I discovered me. The real me. The messy, imperfect, brave, scared, creative, loving, compassionate, wholehearted me.

Maya Angelou writes, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." I've always honored the power of story. In fact, I believe so strongly in its power that I've dedicated my career to excavating untold stories and bringing them up to the light. In some miraculous way, I feel as if this midlife unraveling has taught me-in my head and my heart-how to be brave. I'm still not good at surrendering or "living in the question," but I am getting better. I guess you could say I've graduated to "writhing in the question." Not exactly Zen, but it is progress.

As far as my relationship with the universe . . . well, we've actually become very good friends. I even came to love and trust her when, in a quiet moment, I looked deeply into her eyes and realized that she, the universe, was me.

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Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling. By definition, you can't control or manage an unraveling. You can't cure the midlife unraveling with control any more than the acquisitions, accomplishments, and alpha-parenting of our thirties cured our deep longing for permission to slow down and be imperfect...

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https://poets.org/poem/kindness

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Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

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Kindness - Before you know what kindness really is

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https://www.instagram.com/tv/CYEpCgxBTAf/

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RMxTX-HeNMCGkNTZh1TR-CgqaLDtc5kba5jx8JOKRqc/edit?usp=sharing

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Create a new document and edit with others at the same time -- from your computer, phone or tablet. Get stuff done with or without an internet connection. Use Docs to edit Word files. Free from Google.

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Ain't Burned All the Bright (book in our library!)

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Ain't Burned All the Bright (book in our library!)

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https://www.washingtonpost.com/books/2022/01/11/jason-reynolds-aint-burned/

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Jason Reynolds, the National Ambassador for Young People's Literature, collaborated with his longtime friend, artist Jason Griffin, on "Ain't Burned All the Bright." (Adedayo "Dayo" Kosoko)

Our era is measured in breaths held, denied or sought. Breath as waiting, coping or hoping, as panic and distress. Breath commodified as safety, time or privilege. Breath as a fundamental right. These inhalations form the bones of " Ain't Burned All the Bright," the stunning new book by Jason Reynolds - the best-selling author of such books as " Ghost" and " Long Way Down " and the National Ambassador for Young People's Literature - and his longtime friend, artist Jason Griffin. "Ain't Burned All the Bright" consists of only three sentences that unfold over the course of 300 illustrated pages. Their brevity speaks volumes.

How a kid who didn't read a book until he was 17 grew up to become a literary star

A strength unique to visual storytelling is its ability to enrich and unpack the text, building on minor variations in observed details. Through art and words, "Ain't Burned All the Bright" looks at how we measure time - the book's stretched-out sentence echoes the reality of waiting indefinitely for justice, for progress, for a fulfillment of hollow promises. Insisting that possibility survives, even as every possibility now carries an asterisk.

Reynolds's narrator details how crucial signs of life double as sources of frustration. These markers allow us to fall into a shallow snare, like quipping about a sibling 100 days into societal shutdown: "and my brother never lifts his head from the game/ while his hands jut around moving in a panic as he fights/ for an extra life." Reynolds never preaches, but he offers a lens through which to view how we each compartmentalize multiple ongoing crises: global pandemic, protest movements against white supremacy, police brutality, and democracy at a crossroads - and our capacity to accept others' coping methods without judgment.

This is a book about fatigue ( " and she wipes weary from her eyes/ still glued to the no-good/ glued to the high-definition glare/ of low-definition life"), about holding indefinitely at the limits of anxiety, acknowledging that the people you know best often drive you to your wits' end, followed by the catharsis of seeing and hearing them anew, relearning to see and hear yourself through them.

The murder of George Floyd in May 2020 anchors the book in time, but the text-image interplay cautions us against limiting our context to a single protest, injustice or reckoning. Visual repetition drives home both the cumulative effect of those fits and starts that accompany decentralized mass protest movements and the dynamic tension between patience and urgency, between "smelling the flowers" and "blowing out the candles" - the exact calming exercise my wife and I have taught our kids to help cope during these past two years.

Griffin, who collaborated with Reynolds on the 2009 book "My Name Is Jason. Mine Too: Our Story. Our Way," deftly allows the reader to receive visual information without subjugating it to the text. His sequential imagery truly carries the book by completing and expanding on patterns established by Reynolds's prose. Griffin's creative approach builds layers over fragile, accessible materials - the style suggests a found-journal quality, using the kinds of materials available to a household weathering months of pandemic isolation. We see cracks in the white paint, smudges and erasures, the gel pens, the glue stick, the textures underneath. His stark color palette offers red and blue as a pendulum of limited options: burning or drowning, blood and police, suffocation by tear gas or rising tides. But Griffin reminds us not to forget that clear summer sky or the flush under our skins when we yell, laugh and weep together.

Jason Reynolds helps put a spotlight on Banned Books Week

Plain fabric conjures the sense memory of handmade blankets and weathered skin, always vulnerable to decay. Tape frays where it's been cut but still holds the piece together, accepting new layers where needed. These plainly visible layers embody the cumulative effect of bearing witness to the same struggles, the same day with new variables, the same limited cross-sections of people. Text passages reemerge as a chorus with visual reprise. When our narrator identifies "the that in this and that/ is the feeling that this fight for freedom/ ain't nothing but a fist with a face that looks like mine/ swinging at the wind," allow yourself to be reminded of what the late, beloved John Lewis called "not the struggle of a few days, weeks, or months, but the struggle of many lifetimes," of the Sisyphean nature of vigilance in the ongoing, expansive movement for the lives of Black Americans and the unfulfilled promise of multiracial democracy.

Lined pages conjure memories of drawing on notebook paper, the medium of choice for our best adolescent art because we were freed from the possibility of presentable, "respectable" work. These sketchbook transmissions understand their own power as work-in-progress. Democracy and love are both actions and states, done and undone and done again, promises worth pursuing. "Ain't Burned All the Bright" - billed as a book for ages 12 and up - is an essential read for all ages, an injection of humanity as we regroup at a threshold between possible futures.
Nate Powell is a graphic novelist whose work includes John Lewis's National Book Award-winning "March" trilogy, the new graphic memoir/essay "Save It for Later," the horror tale "Come Again," and Rick Riordan's "The Lost Hero." Ain't Burned All the Bright
By Jason Reynolds and Jason Griffin.

Atheneum/Caitlyn Dlouhy, 384 pp. $19.99

A note to our readers

We are a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for us to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com and affiliated sites.

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Review | Jason Reynolds delivers a powerful message in just three sentences

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Our era is measured in breaths held, denied or sought. Breath as waiting, coping or hoping, as panic and distress. Breath commodified as safety, time or privilege. Breath as a fundamental right.

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https://www.history.com/news/coding-used-to-be-a-womans-job-so-it-was-paid-less-and-undervalued

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The black and white photos showed smartly dressed women deftly configuring wires on an enormous machine-the first general-purpose all-electronic digital computer. When Kathy Kleiman, a computer programmer and historian, came across these pictures, it was clear to her that these young women knew what they were doing.

"I had been told they were models," she says. "And of course, they're not."

Those women, Kleiman discovered, were the first modern computer coders, or programmers, in the U.S. The two men who had designed the computer, called the ENIAC, had been well-known since 1946. Yet for decades, computer historians had no idea who the women in those photos were, and simply assumed that they had nothing to do with the groundbreaking machine. By the time the six female programmers finally received public recognition, most were in their 70s.

These six women developed the new field of computer programming during World War II, a time when the government was encouraging women to take on wartime jobs while male soldiers fought overseas. Originally, the military had hired them as "computers" to calculate ballistics trajectories by hand. This meant determining the angle soldiers should fire at based on how far away the target was, what the weather conditions were that day, and other factors. By 1945, they were part of nearly 100 female mathematicians working as "computers."

Calculating these trajectories by hand took a really, really long time, and two male engineers-John Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert-thought they could design a special machine that would calculate them faster. They called the new machine the ENIAC, or Electronic Numerical Integrator And Computer, and hired six of the female "computers" to perform calculations with it.

The team included Jean Jennings Bartik, who would later lead the development of computer storage and memory, and Frances Elizabeth "Betty" Holberton, who would go on to create the first software application. Together with Frances Bilas Spence, Marlyn Wescoff Meltzer, Kathleen "Kay" McNulty Mauchly Antonelli, and Ruth Lichterman Teitelbaum, they laid the groundwork for future programmers and software engineers. And, since they were the first modern coders, they were instrumental in teaching others to program after the war.

In the beginning, they weren't even allowed into the ENIAC room because they didn't yet have the security clearance. Instead, they were expected to code the machine using only paper diagrams of it. These diagrams didn't come with any instructions-they had to figure it out themselves without any programming languages or manuals, because none existed.

But while the male inventors of the ENIAC received awards and publicity, these women received no recognition for their pioneering efforts. On the ENIAC's public debut on February 14, 1946, Mauchly and Eckert were introduced to the press as the ENIAC's designers. The women were never introduced, and they weren't invited to the Army dinner celebrating the debut either. When their pictures appeared in the press, the captions didn't even mention their names or roles. Because they were women, it was assumed that the work they did must not have been very difficult.

"In the beginning, there was a general sense that the computer itself was doing the work, and building the computer was the really important thing," says Janet Abbate, a professor of science and technology in society at Virginia Tech and author of Recoding Gender. "It took a few decades to really get to the point now, where we just take for granted that software is important."

Programming the ENIAC was an intellectually demanding job that involved extensive preparation, planning, learning about the ENIAC from its logical diagrams, and then configuring wires on a massive machine stretching across a 50-by-30-foot room. Or, as Bartik put it in the documentary The Computers, "the ENIAC was a son of a bitch to program."

Although women who performed other wartime jobs had always been expected to give the jobs up to men when they returned from the war, this wasn't the case with programming. After all, men had never done it before.

"The Army did not kick these six women out," says Kleiman, who produced The Computers as part of her ENIAC Programmers Project. "Because no one else had programmed this thing. No soldier returning from the war had the skill set these women did."

New women began to enter the field, too. "After the war there was such a boom in computing that there were more jobs than qualified people to fill them," Abbate says. "And so that was another reason why women weren't pushed out, they were pulled in."

Although the boom pulled in more men than women, the percentages of women in programming were much higher than those in other STEM fields. Still, even with the introduction of men, programming was often conflated with low-level clerical work commonly performed by women like typing or filing, writes Nathan Ensmenger, a professor of informatics and computing at Indiana University.

These stereotypes about the job helped keep its pay and prestige low. Yet programmer Grace Hopper, who invented the first computer language compiler (which transferred mathematical code into machine code), also used gender stereotypes to encourage women to enter the field. In a 1967 Cosmopolitan article titled "The Computer Girls," she quipped that programming "just like planning a dinner." Hopper continued: "Programming requires patience and the ability to handle detail. Women are 'naturals' at computer programming."

"People like Grace Hopper were very consciously mobilizing gender stereotypes to get women in," Abbate says. Programming, some argued, was similar to knitting, sewing, or even crossword puzzles, so women were a perfect fit.

Over time, stereotypes about the field shifted to the point that computer programming came to be seen as a job better suited for men than women. Instead of a job that was perfect for detail-oriented women who loved to collaborate and plan, it became a job for antisocial, "geeky" boys. In the summer of 2017, a white male programmer at Google was fired for writing widely-circulated memo that used gender stereotypes to argue that women were inherently worse at programming than men.

There are multiple likely factors that contributed to programming's shift from a women-friendly occupation to one that is hostile to women. In the 1950s and '60s, employers began relying on aptitude tests and personality profiles that weeded out women by prioritizing stereotypically masculine traits and, increasingly, antisocialness. Abbate says the 1970s recession might have also caused a drop-off in the number of women entering the field, because it was the first time programmers weren't so in-demand.

In addition, Jane Margolis, a senior researcher at the University of California-Los Angeles and author of Unlocking the Clubhouse, cites the introduction of the home computer as a "boys toy" in the 1980s as a factor that pushed more men than women into computer science. Radio Shack ran ads showing that personal computers were great for nerdy (white) boys and sporty boys because they could use it to do homework and play video games. Another 1985 Apple ad showed how much a computer could help a boy named Brian Scott, while also demonstrating what fun he could have teasing a girl who was trying to use a computer.

When professions shift from male-dominated to female-dominated, they usually see decreases in pay and prestige. Teaching and nursing, once considered male fields, are today largely low-paying, pink-collar occupations. In the case of computer programming, this transformation ran in reverse. Although it's not clear exactly how much programmers earned in the '40s and '50s, it definitely wasn't comparable to Google's $106,900 "early career median pay" of today. Women could be promoted to other technical jobs, but could not advance into "big-money sales and management jobs," Abbate says. By 1969, the median salary for female computer specialists was $7,763, Abbate writes in Recoding Gender. In contrast, men earned a median of $11,193 as computer specialists and $13,149 as engineers.

These underpaid, undervalued women who played such a critical role in developing their field might never have gotten their due at all without the work of female historians like Kleiman and Abbate. But there is still more work to be done in bringing the stories of uncredited women out of the shadows, particularly in regards to the contributions of women of color. Recently, Margot Lee Shetterly's book Hidden Figures and its 2017 film adaptation have helped fill in some gaps in the historical record regarding influential black female mathematicians-including Dorothy Vaughan, an expert in the FORTRAN programing language.

There are likely many more "hidden figures" whose contributions have yet to be found. Finding these women isn't just important because it gives credit where credit is due. It also counters narratives that women don't have a place in modern programming.

"This is not a field women are newcomers to," Abbate says. "This is a field where they have a history and belong."

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The First 1940s Coders Were Women-So How Did Tech Bros Take Over?

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The black and white photos showed smartly dressed women deftly configuring wires on an enormous machine-the first general-purpose all-electronic digital computer. When Kathy Kleiman, a computer programmer and historian, came across these pictures, it was clear to her that these young women knew what they were doing.

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https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89897/good-bones

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Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

Life is short, and I've shortened mine

in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,

a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways

I'll keep from my children. The world is at least

fifty percent terrible, and that's a conservative

estimate, though I keep this from my children.

For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.

For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,

sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world

is at least half terrible, and for every kind

stranger, there is one who would break you,

though I keep this from my children. I am trying

to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,

walking you through a real shithole, chirps on

about good bones: This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful.

Maggie Smith, "Good Bones" from Waxwing. Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Smith. Reprinted by permission of Waxwing magazine

Source: Waxwing magazine (Issue IX, Summer 2016) (2016)

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Good Bones by Maggie Smith | Poetry Foundation

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Life is short, though I keep this from my children.

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https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/28/books/young-adult-fiction-asian-american-vintage-photographs-archives.html?action=click&module=RelatedLinks&pgtype=Article

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A Tokyo motorcycle ride. Circa 1966. Photograph by John Launois/Copyright the Estate of John Launois.

Past Tense

The New York Times invited Asian-American authors to choose photos from our archives and write short young-adult fiction inspired by them.

A Tokyo motorcycle ride. Circa 1966. Photograph by John Launois/Copyright the Estate of John Launois. Credit...

As we digitize The New York Times's photography archives, we often come across images that resonate in unusual and unexpected ways, even after a century. We wondered what novelists might make of some of them - so we asked. To be specific, we asked 10 acclaimed authors to write pieces of short fiction inspired by vintage photos from The Times. What follows are the results, along with the images in question and the authors' explanations of how the particular photos spoke to them.

We were especially interested in themes of identity, belonging and empowerment, which now dominate the national conversation, so we reached out to authors working in the young-adult genre, which has been grappling with those issues for years. We focused on Asian-American novelists as part of our continuing commitment to underrepresented voices, as well as to see what commonalities and differences rose to the surface.

Each author was sent about a half-dozen images and asked to select just one. Some of the photos reflected their ancestry. Others spoke to important aspects of their life or work. After each writer picked the image that captivated her or him most, we asked that they disregard whoever the real people in the photographs were and even the true-life locations if they preferred. We wanted their imagination to be the only engine here. As you will see, the writers took the photos and ran. We are grateful to them for giving these images new lives.
Editor's Note: The individuals appearing in these photographs are unrelated to the characters and events described in the stories.

Inside the pig's head, it was starting to stink. The half-dozen mints Jenny Watanabe had eaten at the beginning of her shift to pre-emptively perfume the interior had long since worn off. She was already sweating like crazy, and the new Big Bad Wolf had just begun chasing them. She knew it was only going to get worse. Tokyo Disneyland on a hot day was a long slog through mobs of squealing children clutching melting ice cream cones while executing repetitive choreography in bulky costumes.

She didn't know it would be like this when she started the job. She had thought it would be a welcome break from the demoralizing struggle of learning Japanese, because at Tokyo Disneyland, everything was in English. She was Yonsei, which meant she looked Japanese but didn't know how to say much beyond sumimasen. When she first arrived at the park, one week into her exchange program, seeing all those English signs felt like coming home.

The honeymoon didn't last long.

"The first rule is that you do not talk," the character trainer informed her on her first day. Jenny was secretly relieved. She had been cast as Practical Pig, the one who builds his house out of stone. He was distinguished from his impractical brothers Fifer and Fiddler by his angry eyebrows.

She had not anticipated how quickly "Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?" would lodge in her head as the most irritating ear worm in the history of ear worms, or how Practical's eyebrows could terrify little kids. A few days into the job, after a kid literally ran away from her while shrieking, Fifer (a Japanese guy who spoke perfect English, making her feel extra ashamed of her rudimentary knowledge of her ancestral tongue) said, "Why do you think Practical is constantly being recast? You're the third Practical in two months. No one can cut it!"

And then there was the mind trip of spending so much time in Practical's head. It was kind of like being transported into an alternate dimension. All sound was muffled by the extensively padded pig cheeks, and her vision was restricted to only what she could see through Practical's tiny, immovable eye holes. Usually it was Fifer's outflung white-gloved hand as he did his Irish-dance-inspired jig.

If she concentrated enough on Fifer's hand and on her own choreography (it really was challenging to dance around in a rotund pig's belly), she could almost convince herself that she wasn't real at all. She was simply a cog in the machine that was Tokyo Disneyland. Inside the pig, she was anonymous; she was no one. Staying silent had never seemed so natural. She experienced her pigness as a void - a black hole that had been stripped of its sucking power and was now simply nothing.

*

That morning, when she arrived in the backstage changing area, a blond girl was sitting on the bench putting on the Big Bad Wolf's feet. "Hey, I'm Veronica," the blonde said. "I'm the new Wolf."

Veronica! Jenny had seen Veronica before. She'd been wearing a Swiss Miss-type outfit over by Cinderella's Castle. The good thing about being inside a pig's head was that people didn't know when she was checking them out. Outside the head, she was tongue-tied.

Veronica gave her an eyebrow tilt. "You O.K.?"

"Um, yeah." Jenny pulled out her mints and popped several into her mouth, then thought she should probably offer some to Veronica. She held out the tin. "The head gets stuffy," she explained.

Veronica nodded gravely and took a couple. "Thanks. You're American too, right?"

"Um, yeah." She started to get dressed in her costume.

"Did you ever think that being forced to stay quiet all the time is like an infringement on our First Amendment rights? Like, we already have to be nice all day and let little kids hit us. This is practically abuse. We should start a union."

Jenny didn't know what to say. She began to turn red from embarrassment at her own dorkiness, so she put on Practical's head.

Veronica gasped. "Check out your eyebrows! You look pissed!"

*

It was clear that Veronica was a different kind of Wolf. She was way more into it than the old Wolf, and there was a campy, exaggerated quality to the way she chased them. Jenny found it distracting. She couldn't access her void space the way she normally could, because she kept wanting to watch Veronica.

As the climax of their performance approached, Veronica accidentally-on-purpose tripped and fell, dramatically pounding her gloved hands on the ground in a silent tantrum. Jenny and the other Pigs arranged themselves in a rough triangle, doing their step-touch, step-touch thing. At the end of the song they were supposed to skip in a circle, jump-turn twice and wave jazz hands at the gathered audience. But then Jenny saw Veronica give up on her silent tantrum and - in complete defiance of the official choreography - prop her head up on one hand to watch the Pigs finish.

Jenny felt as if she could hear Veronica challenging her: Union! First Amendment! Pissed!

Fifer was beginning his jazz hands, but instead of joining him, Jenny had the irresistible urge to raise her fist in the air. The white glove squished as she clenched her fingers. The audience gaped at her silently. She was exhilarated; she could practically feel the sun on her face.
Why this photo: This photograph from Tokyo Disneyland stood out to me immediately because it was quirky and startling. It invites the viewer to ask questions: Why does that pig look angry? Who is inside the pig's costume? How do they feel? I had to know the answers. - M.L.
Malinda Lois the author of "Ash," which is now available in a special 10th-anniversary edition; "A Line in the Dark"; and other novels. She grew up in Colorado.
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Nani can't work the remote control.

"Sham tells me, 'It's easy, it's easy,' instead of paying the TV man to show us properly," she puffs, jamming her long red nails into buttons, producing nothing but static on the new 55-inch.

"Let me try it," I murmur, lost in Nani's iPhone.

"You don't know anything. Every time you come, you break my phone."

I'm too deep in Instagram to defend myself. Sundays at Nani's are a sacred ritual. The day she used to take me out. But I'm in seventh grade now. I don't need her to take me out. What I need is her phone.

"I tell your mother to get you your own phone but she says your grades will go down. I'd rather a grandson who can do useful things than get A's and sit here like a lump. Sham! Sham! "

I glance up at her, jostling the remote, the sequins on her jumpsuit a radiant flurry. She bought the jumpsuit at the Dadeland mall a few months ago, the last Sunday I let her take me out. She'd attempted to make me over with Ralph Lauren Polo vests, an Aveda facial and a D&G speedo, before I escaped to the arcade. ("I just want you to be happy with how you look. So you can make friends," she lamented later. "I have friends," I shot back. She glared through me and started walking, weighed down by bags. "If Grandpa asks, tell him all these clothes are for you.")

"Oh, look," she crows now.

Nani's managed to get something on the TV.

Ariana Grande is lip-syncing, half-naked and covered in paint.

"That's YouTube. We need Netflix," I say, unhelpfully, scrolling through Archer Bresden's photos, careful not to like any of them by accident. He just turned 13, literally six months younger than me, and has muscles bigger than my head. He dressed like Thor for Halloween. I hate him.

" Sham! " Nani calls again.

Grandpa ducks his shiny, round head in. He gets so little sun these days he looks like a goblin poking out of his gold mine. "What is this nonsense?" he hectors, pointing a knobby finger at Ariana. "Prakash says it's the Hulu station. Proper Hindi movies in HD. But he says do the free trial otherwise you have to pay."

"I don't want Hulu. I don't want a Hindi movie. I want Netflix. That's why I came," I growl, trying to figure out if Archer's eyes are actually that color or whether there's a filter. "I don't even know Hindi."

"We'll put subtitles," Grandpa dismisses. "Boy your age should know the classics. 'Dilwale' ... 'Lagaan' ... 'Kuch Kuch Hota Hai' ..."

"We're watching something else," says Nani calmly, unable to stop YouTube from rolling into a montage of boys tormenting cats. "Santosh wants to show me this movie. 'The Boys I Love.'"

Grandpa gapes at me.

"'To All the Boys I've Loved Before,'" I snap, but he still looks perturbed. "It's for school," I add.

Nani darts me a look.

"What kind of school is this?" Grandpa harrumphs. "We watch 'Sholay.' Then you bring in Nani's pakoras and do a proper report and teach your classmates about Amitabh Bachchan. Your teacher will give extra credit."

"That's not how it works," I say, frustrated. "This is America."

"Hulu!" Grandpa barks at Nani, pointing at YouTube gone wild: teddy bears being stuffed into blenders. "Go to Hulu!"

"Hulu Vulu! If you're so smart, you do it!" Nani retorts, holding out the remote. But Grandpa's already halfway down the hall, his limp stuttering on the marble. ("Prakash says it's easy!")

A DM pops up on Insta. From Jeannie, my lab partner: Why u hearting Archer Bresden's pics

I drop the phone. It hits the floor hard.

"No wonder your mother won't get you a phone," Nani says, dumping the remote on the couch. "Let's go to Cocowalk. See a movie properly. Like we used to do before you became a homebody."

"My friends hang out there." I scoop up the phone, too afraid to assess the damage.

"Must be good friends if you want to avoid them."

"Plus you can't concentrate on the movie," I say hotly, snatching the remote and searching for Netflix myself. "There's people and they eat popcorn and make noise and kiss in front of you. What's the point."

"That is the point, Santosh," Nani says, sharply. "That's the whole point."

I look up. Her new jumpsuit shimmers blue and green. She's wearing makeup. Her hair is blown and styled. She's wearing diamonds. It's Sunday, after all. But we don't go out anymore. I won't let her take me. And yet, she's still ready, like a bird that might be let out of its cage.

Why this photo: Longing. That was the emotion when I saw this photo for the first time: a reminder of what the movies meant to me as an anxious, alienated teenager, the only Indian in my neighborhood and school. I needed the experience of a crowded theater, of an audience, to feel connected. To feel human. What happens when that is lost? - S.C.
Soman Chainani is the author of the New York Times best-selling series "The School for Good and Evil," soon to be a major motion picture. He grew up in Key Biscayne, Fla.
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Sì, the word for four, sounded very similar to sǐ, the word for death. It was a deeply unlucky number.

So when she was born, her father, who had prayed every day to Guanyin for a son after three daughters, took one look at her and walked out of the birthing room. She was not only the fourth, but a girl at that.

She spent her entire life hiding in corners, staying out of everyone's way, trying to make up for the ill fortune she had brought down upon her father, by finding little ways to organize their lives around luckier numbers.

She whispered to the rice plants to sprout in unison on the eighth - eight, bā, which sounded similar to fā, the word for wealth and prosperity - day of spring. Her father beamed at the bright green shoots blanketing the flooded fields and credited his luck to the auspicious timing.

When the hail came and rattled the tin roof of their house, she whispered for the storm to turn away in three - sān, which was similar to shēng, the word for birth - hours, to divert calamities away from her family. Her father looked up in astonishment at the clearing skies and proclaimed that their stroke of luck had protected their crops.

And when the rains dried up and the rice fields cracked, she whispered to the skies to send water within nine days - nine, jiǔ, which sounded like jiǔ, the word for eternity and longevity. The skies opened and her father declared the family protected by the heavens.

She, of course, never told anyone that she was responsible for these events in their lives. Being the fourth and a girl was misfortune enough. Adding the label of witch, zhu, would surely ostracize their family from the rest of the village. She had seen other girls accused of witchcraft, witnessed them excluded and left unmarried. One girl had been driven out of the village altogether.

At night, she studied in secret by lantern light for the exams that could qualify her for a coveted government scholarship, one that sent students to study at American universities. It would give her a reason to leave home at last, to remove herself from this place altogether and thus from the misfortune that came with her.

But after she took the exams, the invitation that arrived in the mail came not from the government's scholar fund - but from a society in Chicago that specialized in training students gifted with the kind of magic she possessed.

How did they know? She spent that day studying her hands in wonder. The test had been as normal as she could have imagined. She did not realize that her fingers had left trails of magic on the paper, like an imprint of dust that glittered long after she had finished.

So the next morning, she woke up at six - liù, which sounded similar to liú, the word indicating clarity and smoothness - and quietly left home, turning her shoes away from the smattering of homes in her family's rural village to Shanghai, the city of the future, from which she would embark to America.

The entire trip on the boat, she practiced her talents, making broken light bulbs glow in the boat's dining area and scattering blankets of clouds to form patterns against the blue sky. It was a surprisingly smooth journey. Other students in her bunker - twins and a round-faced young woman and a flighty girl with braided knots in her hair - chatted curiously with her, teasing her country accent and asking where she came from. They were the children of wealthier families in the cities. She marveled at their fur coats and cloche hats, the soft leather of their purses. Her own coat was old, the buttons twisted in the traditional Chinese sense, something that seemed old-fashioned beside these rich young women's Western fashions.

When they finally dragged their trunks off the train in Chicago, a photographer was waiting to take their photos. For the paper, he said. So they clustered together, wearing their best coats, their faces both eager and intimidated. She would never see the developed photo, but if she had, she would have noticed that her magic hung about her in a halo that the camera picked up, obscuring her face behind a haze.

It took her a moment longer to notice the lady waiting for her by the train platform. She was small, her back slightly rounded in a hunch, and when she stretched a hand out in greeting, her fingers were long and graceful.

"Welcome to Chicago," the lady told her in Mandarin, "and to your training in the art of magic. I see you have been blessed with great fortune."

She blinked. It was the first time anyone had ever looked pleased to see her, and she was so surprised that she replied, "I am the fourth sister in my family, so I am the bringer of misfortune."

The woman shook her head. "That is impossible, you see, for I can tell that you have been gifted with the magic of luck. That is how your application somehow ended up at our office, and how I noticed the shimmer of magic on the paper. I will teach you how to wield it."

The rice harvest and the diverted storm. The early rains and the smooth voyage. Good fortune. It was the first time anyone had given that identity to her, but she'd had it all along.

She smiled. Then she fell into step beside the woman and never looked back.
Why this photo: I was drawn to these young women's beautiful fashion sense, and struck by the fact that they were female Chinese students arriving in Chicago. Considering that Chinese women were banned from the United States in 1875 with the Page Act, the first U.S. federal law restricting immigration and one that laid the groundwork for the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, I was moved to see these young women arriving in the same country that wanted them out. - M.L.
Marie Lu is the New York Times best-selling author of the "Young Elites," "Legend," and "Warcross" series. She worked as a video-game artist before turning to writing full-time. She lives in Los Angeles.
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Oct. 10, 1958
KARACHI, Pakistan - A sea Jinn appeared Thursday at Bohri Bazaar market in Karachi, terrifying patrons of a small drugstore and causing widespread panic just days after President Iskander Mirza declared martial law in Pakistan.

The creature's diminutive stature initially fooled patrons of Aftab Drugstore into thinking it was a mere Ghul, the smaller, less violent cousin of the Jinn.

"Then it grabbed me," said Farkhanda Aftab, 7, the daughter of the store's owner, Yousef Aftab. "And it screamed. It felt like knives in my ears. I thought I would die."

At the sight of the Jinn, patrons fled into the streets of the bazaar, overturning bicycle rickshaws and ox carts, and nearly causing a stampede.

Fortunately for Farkhanda, local fisherman Sahib Muhammad, who regularly visits the drugstore, also finds himself tangling with Jinn on stormy days in Karachi's harbor.

"A prayer and a warning is usually all that is required to dispatch them," Mr. Muhammad said. "However this one was stubborn."

After the Jinn latched onto the girl, neither prayer nor words worked, and Mr. Muhammad was forced to pry Miss Aftab from the Jinn. Her screams alerted nearby army troops, but by the time they arrived, the sea Jinn had vanished.

In a city already on edge, the presence of a Jinn in an area heavily populated by humans seemed to many to be a sign that more instability was on the horizon.

"Mirza's days are numbered," a local chaiwallah, who spoke on condition of anonymity, said of Pakistan's embattled president. "You cannot dissolve political parties without consequence. He'll be gone by the end of the month and the Jinn know it."

Fozia Mohsin, a local resident, agreed. "The Jinn are not fools," Mr. Mohsin said. "They like havoc. There will be more sightings. Maybe even attacks on humans. They want to take over."

But Inayat Aag of Tribe Sumandar, who spoke on behalf of the Council for the Unified Defense of Jinn Liberties, or "Cudjl," disagreed.

"We have no interest in inserting ourselves into the affairs of humans, particularly with political unrest so high," Mr. Aag said from the mangrove swamps of Korangi Creek, where the Jinn have been isolated since the partition of India and Pakistan. "If a Jinn made an incursion into human territory and laid hands on a human child, he will be found and dealt with according to Jinn law. President Mirza may have abrogated the human constitution, but the 1947 Jinn Independence Act still holds. We are Jinn. We are apart."

An army spokesman, Capt. Cyrus Tata, urged calm. "The presence of Jinn in an otherwise safe neighborhood is proof that martial law is not only necessary, but essential. The law will protect both Jinn and humans, until the political situation can be resolved."

Captain Tata declined to comment further on which political "situation" he was referring to, but recently obtained diplomatic cables indicate that Gen. Ayub Khan, who was appointed the chief martial law administrator by Mr. Mirza less than a week ago, may soon be making a move to cement his own power.

"Preposterous," Captain Tata said. "General Mirza is committed to the peace and prosperity of this country, Jinn and human alike."

Back in Bohri Bazaar, Mr. Aftab assured neighborhood residents that his drugstore was safe.

"We've hired a guard who will work until curfew," he said, "and are offering one free Gleem toothpaste to anyone who makes a purchase over 5 rupees."

"The Jinn is gone, anyway," his young daughter added. "But maybe he wasn't trying to scare me. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he just wanted to talk."
Why this photo: This photograph spoke to me first because of the little girl and man looking at the camera, who seemed familiar to me in a visceral way, as if they are family members I've never met. And second because as a child visiting Pakistan (Lahore, to be specific), I always made up stories in my head about the incredible places I visited, from drugstores and rail stations to big markets like Liberty or Anarkali. You won't see such places on Western "bucket lists," but they should be, because they are wonderful - and filled with fascinating stories. - S.T.
Sabaa Tahir is the author of the New York Times best-selling "An Ember in the Ashes" series, which has been translated into more than 35 languages. She grew up in California's Mojave Desert at her family's 18-room motel.

Rabbit watched the men tilt the heavy console into place and plug it in. The screen blinked pixel mosaics as it woke from its long sleep.

Egg and Fox came crashing in to the arcade. They flung down their backpacks as if they lived there.

"No way," shouted Egg, who was the youngest one.

"My God," said Fox, lowering his Walkman headphones. Fox was the slim one.

Rabbit was the tall one, and had what Fox called tired old man eyes.

The boys stepped toward the console like young knights.
Street Fighter.
"I'm ready," said Fox, who held a handful of coins. Fox always had coins. His dad did plenty of business in Japan and brought back treasures, like Fox's Sony Boodo Khan Special Edition Walkman. Boodo Khan was a stadium in Tokyo that was a hundred times bigger than Ulsan, Fox once claimed.

Egg had plenty of coins, too.

Rabbit never had coins. But Egg and Fox never noticed or cared, which Rabbit was thankful for.

Rabbit avoided going to either Egg's or Fox's homes, because of the questions lurking there. Where does your dad work? What does your mom cook for dinner?

He preferred the arcade. There, neither Egg nor Fox could see what went on in Rabbit's head, which Rabbit was also thankful for. Because Rabbit spent most of his time wishing.

Rabbit had wished for so long for things to be different that he didn't know what it was like not to wish.

But different how?

Fox slotted in a coin and hit the 1 PLAYER button.

COUNTRY SELECT

Rabbit frowned. "Why's it only Japan or USA?"

"Cause Japan's got all the cool stuff," said Fox.

"Also USA," said Egg.

"Maybe there's a Korea later," said Rabbit.

Round 1, yelled the game, and Ryu appeared: a muscled man in a white dobok with the sleeves ripped off. The boys guessed at the controls, which were all in Japanese, and found that Ryu could back flip, leg sweep, uppercut, roundhouse and who knew what else. He faced a bald monk named Retsu.

"I don't know what I'm doing," yelled Fox, and proved it by losing two rounds in quick succession. A ticking time bomb appeared: CONTINUE? Above the bomb was a countdown. If they didn't deposit coins in time, they would have to start the game over from the beginning.

"All foreigner welcome," cried Old Mama in English. She pressed play. The music was in English, too.

This house was Old Mama's house.

A door opened, and Mom - Rabbit's real mom - appeared in a glittery tube dress she called New Wave.

Mom touched Rabbit's chin. "Do your homework, O.K.? Old Mama will bring your dinner."

"O.K."

Mom headed to the front. Rabbit heard her call out the awful words: "Let's play."

Rabbit slid his door shut. Footsteps fell heavy on the floor above him. Mom was a fortune teller. A fortune teller, a fortune teller, telling fortunes for fun.

Rabbit drew in his notebook: Ryu kicking 50 men off a cliff, clapping men's heads flat with his hands.

Old Mama appeared with soup and rice and kimchi and fish. She cast an eye about. "You're gonna need a bigger room pretty soon, kid."

She left. Alone, Rabbit ate. He did his homework. He pawed through a crushed magazine and read - again - how Mike Tyson's Punch-Out was coming soon for Famicom. It looked primitive compared to Street Fighter, he told himself. Nowhere near as cool.

"Promise," said Old Mama.

From the front, a small male voice: "Hello?"

Old Mama rose, shuffled toward the front, and flipped the cassette. Mom rose too. She knelt. She touched Rabbit's chin with the back of her hand.

"Everything's going to change," she whispered, with her smile done in red. "Everything's going to get better." And she slid the door shut.

In the dark, Rabbit could see Ryu take a hit. He could see him fall to the ground. He looked almost like he was asleep on his side. But he wasn't. Because here came the ticking time bomb now, counting down, asking the question: CONTINUE?
Why this photo: I was not that much older than these boys when this photo was taken. It intrigues me to think that this could've been me if my parents hadn't immigrated to the United States. Our fate depends so much on forces we can't see and on choices made before we can even speak. - D.Y.
David Yoon is a writer and designer who created the illustrations for the New York Times best-selling novel "Everything, Everything." His first novel is "Frankly in Love." He grew up in Orange County, Calif.
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Xavier stood apart from the crowd, leaning against the concrete pillar, black knit cap pulled low over his ears and hands buried deep in the pockets of a threadbare coat, which still smelled of the St. Anthony's donation bin. His sister's ghost was with him, as always, silent as a shadow.

It was an overcast and cold New York City morning, but their kababayan didn't mind. They were all grins and chants and protest posters, hands raised in Ls for "Laban": Fight. It was a decent-size group but only a diasporic echo of the joy and excitement on the other side of the world that packed every lane of Epifanio de los Santos Avenue for miles back in Manila.

Xavier glanced at PJ. If she were still alive, she wouldn't be standing in the back with him. She wouldn't even be content to lose herself in the crowd. No, his sister would be hopping on the hoods of cars, dancing with strangers, shouting through a megaphone for everyone to tear down the barbed-wire barriers, raid Imelda's closet and sell all the shoes to feed the poor.

It's not that Xavier wasn't glad. It's not that he wasn't relieved. It's just that he wasn't very hopeful. As a student of history, he always felt the heaviness of time weighing on his shoulders. He knew that revolutions were fragile things, quick to flight but hollow-boned underfoot. Yes, excitement filled today, but what about those they lost? And what about tomorrow?

PJ always called him a coward when he refused to go to the protests with her, and maybe she'd been right. Even now he couldn't shake the low-level fear that had followed him across an ocean.

A white man walking past stopped in front of Xavier, pulling Xavier back to the present. The man wore an expensive suit and a heavy overcoat, like the people whose trash cans Xavier emptied. In one leather-gloved hand, the man carried a briefcase, in the other, a folded newspaper. "What's going on here?" he asked, gazing at the crowd. When Xavier didn't immediately answer, the man turned to face him. "You speak English?"

"It's Marcos," Xavier said, ignoring the second question. "He's done."

"Who?"

But what could he possibly say to someone who could even ask that question? The answer was decades long, thousands of bodies deep.

With his lips, Xavier pointed at the man's paper, which bore the story - albeit an abbreviated version - on the front page. "That just for looks?"

"They'll forget. Or they won't care. That might be worse."

PJ sighed. "So you're still a coward, then? You were afraid to join me in the streets, now you're afraid to put pen to paper?"

Xavier took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair. "You were always the brave one, Ate. Not me. That's why I'm in this foreign country, so far from home, and you're..."

"Dead."

"Right."

The clouds shifted. The crowd started up a new chant. A few passing cars honked in either solidarity or annoyance.

"At least you're out here," PJ said after some time.

"Where did you expect me to be at a moment like this?"

Instead of answering, PJ gestured toward the crowd. "But are you ever going to join them?"

"I missed the boat, Ate. The revolution's over already."

She shook her head. "It's never over, brother. You should know that. Or is this just another excuse?"

Xavier considered this for a long time. Then he sighed, pulled his cap back on and pushed off the wall. He crossed the sidewalk and stood at the edge of the group. A short, old woman who looked like his lola welcomed him with a smile and wrapped an arm around his waist. Xavier returned the smile and then raised his hand in the Laban signal for the first time in his life. He felt like an impostor, but maybe that's how everyone felt at first.

"Happy now?" he said to PJ.

But his sister was already gone. The only shadow that remained was his own.
Why this photo: I'm always thinking about those who aren't centered in an image or a story or a society, so this photo immediately captured my attention as I considered those who weren't in the picture and why. Given the Philippines' current administration, I was also interested in writing a story that could explore the connection between the People Power Revolution that ousted Marcos and our current moment in history. -R.R.
Randy Ribay is the author of "Patron Saints of Nothing," "After the Shot Drops" and "An Infinite Number of Parallel Universes." He was born in the Philippines and now lives in California.
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Babr woke at dawn to the muezzin's call and the swoosh swoosh of street sweepers. He was tired. But even with the pain in his right arm from sleeping shoulder to cement, and despite the weight of memory, he felt the grace of small joys.

He rose from under the shadow of the Rajabai Clock Tower, which sits atop the storied spiral-stair vestibule of the University of Mumbai. On hot nights, the air in the tiny windowless room he shared with the other darban was stifling - the smell of their cleaning supplies and sweat-stained clothes overwhelming. So on clear evenings, he would climb the winding stairs to offer Isha prayers before drifting to sleep under the open skies, seeing the face of his beloved in the fading stars.

Stretching, he felt the creak of old age in his knees. He wrapped his worn green shawl, which also served as a sleeping mat, around his shoulders and adjusted the topi on his head. Patting his chest to check for the hidden pocket sewn into his shirt, Babr smiled. He was not the ingenious tailor his wife had been, but he believed she would have been proud of his efforts, even if the money in his pocket had been obtained through deception. For what did this place, established by the British and built in the image of their great universities, stand for but dishonesty? Perhaps he was not a finely educated man, but he understood well enough that the foundation of the Raj had been a clever deceit - the idea that the Angrez knew what was better for India than Indians did.

He yawned and rubbed his face vigorously to wake up. He touched his hidden pocket once more and felt last evening's bounty. The nightly carnival at the Gateway of India had proven especially lucrative during yesterday's pre-election festivities.

*

In the days before the election, Babr had observed the tourists and their habits. Then he concocted a dry bhang masala - a more organic alternative to the bhang lassi, he assured his buyers, than what is available at any of the Government Authorized Bhang Shops. Unlike the dozens of other drug-wallahs asking, "Smoke? Smoke?" to every staggering traveler, Babr had a marketing plan. You didn't smoke his bhang or sip it in a sweet yogurt drink, but rather could discreetly mix it into your soda without risk of detection by the police.

Of course, there was no such thing as dry bhang masala.

But Angrez tourists did not know this. Bhang was a pistachio green paste of crushed marijuana leaves blended with milk, almonds and spices, but Babr's bhang was a heady concoction of crushed curry leaves and cumin, with few actual buds of cannabis. Babr carefully divided his bhang into little cheesecloth potlis that he sold for the galling price of 50 rupees. The Angrez all too willing to pay for a taste of the authentic India.

Babr had celebrated his fortune by treating himself to a full thali - rice, aloo palak, daal, chappati, pappadum, raita, chana. But he ate with a lump in his throat remembering his wife, who had always taken special delight in Election Day, preparing a feast fit for the end of Ramadan and stringing a jasmine garland through her braid.

When the last of the carnival's fireworks had fizzled out, Babr hitched a ride back to the university.

*

This year as ever, elections brought threats of anti-Muslim violence enflamed by the fearmongering rhetoric of the ruling party. But Babr's wife had taught him hope, holding precious her pride in being Indian, reminding him that the Des had been ripped apart for him to have this opportunity. The blood of his own family and so many families filling cracked earth. He remembered his mother weeping for the sister who had gone to Pakistan and whom she would never see again. This had confused him as a young boy, but five years ago, when his wife died, he understood how the human body could be cleaved in two, never to be whole again.

As Babr approached his polling place on foot, he heard a brass band and the joyous beats of the dhol, a barrel-shaped, double-sided drum. To Babr, it was the sound of India. He took his place in line, all smiles, shaking his head as party supporters descended on the voters, cajoling, making promises, cutting deals.

When at last it was Babr's turn, a sweaty man with a district badge ushered him to a table where Babr presented his government identification and where they marked his left finger with special ink. Babr watched the purple streak widen across his nail, into the crevices of his skin.

"It will wash off in two weeks," the election official assured him.

The next officer sat outside the voting booth and pressed a button that released a new ballot. He asked, "Do you know how to vote?" Babr nodded. He had also voted in the last election with an electronic voting machine. He knew what to do.

Babr walked outside of the school, blinking against the bright sunlight. He looked down at the crowd of waiting voters and raised his left index finger above his head. A couple lingering dhol players slapped out beats, and his fellow Bombayites let out a cheer, a few dancing in place.

Babr had the sudden youthful urge to run down the street into the afternoon sun. He ran at full speed. He stopped at the next street, bending over, panting, hands on his knees. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, Babr crossed the road to the sweet shop where he selected a burfi and a ladoo, his wife's favorites.

Babr marched back toward the university and his life of cleaning up after rich students, pain in his knees, and days that held no promises. He walked to his spiral tower and prayers whispered to the heavens. He walked with his beloved's heart in his heart. He walked on the streets of a free India, ancient and ever new.
Why this photo: I was immediately drawn to the tower photo because it feels like a fairy tale but it's also part of my actual origin story. My parents met each other under the shadow of this tower when they were studying architecture at the University of Bombay (now the University of Mumbai). Years later and a few miles away, I was born at Bombay Hospital. - S.A.
Samira Ahmed is the New York Times best-selling author of "Love, Hate & Other Filters" and "Internment." She was born in Bombay, India, and grew up in a small town in Illinois.
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Did you know the horizon is a seam that opens every 12 years, when the zodiac resets and the pig is eaten by the rat? At dusk the crack becomes a mouth and the mouth gapes wide and winged creatures of every shape ascend into our sky, then descend upon our streets.

This is what I've been told by Yima, the aunt who raised me because my parents could not. I don't even remember what my parents looked like, but Yima - who sings to me as she braids my hair into loops, and cooks me sweet broth with red sugar and ginger when my monthly pains set in - she's all that I need.

I was 3 the last time the seam opened. I don't really remember that either, except that Yima likes to recount the story of how I tried to bargain with a honeybee. She tells it so often the words have sculpted themselves into a memory of my own.

It's the Lunar New Year and so last night they came, undeterred by the firecrackers that sounded like war. In the morning light I see them outside in the form of sparrows and herons, locusts and cicadas. I point to the window and Yima smiles faintly.

"Such beautiful spring blossoms," she says, because she is old and her mind has changed, like a piece of glass scratched until it's opaque. There are no flowers to be seen. Only wisps of incense drifting over from the neighbors', and shreds of red paper from last night's fireworks littering the ground. Only those winged creatures perched on the clotheslines, on the seat and handlebars of a parked moped.

I open the door and scatter peanuts over the cobblestones in case they're hungry. They show no interest, only blink at me, eerily silent.

I'd thought perhaps they were here to tell me something. Now the idea seems foolish.

Embarrassed, I turn to go back in and nearly crash into Yima, who has forgotten her cane and instead grips the wall.

"What are you doing?" she hisses. "Don't encourage them."

Her tone and lucidness surprise me, as does the terrible expression tightening her face. I let her pull me inside, let the door slam shut. What does she mean, encourage them?

All day, Yima goes back and forth: One moment she runs her knuckles along my cheek, saying, "You were such a small thing when you came to me. A little jewel." And in a blink she's rapping on the window, huffing and glaring at the winged things outside.

In those times when the clouds in her head part, she seems angry and scared. I wish I knew of an herbal broth I could brew to soothe her mind. Instead, I rub ointment into her palms, into the soles of her feet. I sing the songs she taught me, tell silly stories to make her laugh. Yima's smile shines warmer than sunlight.

By dinnertime, as she cleans the water spinach and I chop garlic, it occurs to me she's never explained why those creatures come. What do they want?

When I voice the question she drops the water spinach and turns to me with fearful eyes. "You are so precious to me. You know I would do anything for you?"

"Yes, of course." She's so upset I don't ask anything else. But what is it that I don't know? How do I help?

Early in the predawn morning, when she's still sleeping, I peek around the door to see if the peanuts are still there. I could try offering vegetable scraps, or at least water. Perhaps if I show that I mean no harm, they'll tell me why they're here. If I can get them what they want, they'll go away, and Yima will be untroubled again.

The creatures begin to shriek the moment I step outside. I clap my palms over my ears, and then Yima's hand is on my shoulder. She's out of breath from hurrying, and she stumbles past me, falls onto the cobblestones with a weak mewing sound. Before I can do anything, the beasts are upon her. Crows tear at her hair and sparrows peck at her eyes. Bees hum over every patch of skin and cicadas crawl between her fingers. They screech even as they feast upon her. The sound is an unbearable storm that brings me to my knees.

Light seeps into the sky. Dawn. The neighbors come out to see the source of the cacophony, then disappear and return with bamboo sticks, with brooms and blankets. They swat with their sticks and drum upon their bowls. The creatures scatter, rising up with the first rays of the sun. Everyone cheers. They've forgotten about me, still crouched on the cobblestones with tears dripping from my chin.

After the neighbors have all gone, a man and woman help me to my feet. They look middle-aged and tired. I invite them in for tea, and they tend to my skinned knees, and then they show me a photo of a baby. They claim that it's me.

"She stole you from us," they tell me. "She cursed us so that we couldn't come for you. But now she's gone. Now we can have our precious daughter back."

The hunger in their eyes makes my heart pound. I run back outside, and see that the winged things have returned. They're just as eerily silent as yesterday. I dive toward them, throwing myself to the ground. Sure enough, they come. They eat my skin and my hair, my eyes and my fingers. They make such quick work of it, it doesn't even hurt. I feel my bones falling away, puzzle pieces being loosened from their fit. I hear the man and woman screaming, but it sounds very distant.

The creatures rise up into the air with all the bits of me distributed between their bellies.

I inhale the scent of the sky and think, Yima, I'm coming for you.

Why this photo: I loved this photograph immediately because I saw in it some kind of otherworldly exchange. Even after I read the caption ("Youths chase sparrows from the Summer Palace.") I couldn't shake the thought that these people were looking up at something preternatural. Then came the question: What if they didn't realize what they were smiling at? - E.X.R.P.
Emily X.R. Pan is the New York Times best-selling author of "The Astonishing Color of After," which won an Asian/Pacific American Award Honor for Young Adult Literature and a Walter Award Honor. She lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.
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Walking all the way across the gym toward Mari after weeks of silence is torture. But I make myself do it because I need her back in my life, and I need to tell her now, in person, before I lose my nerve. I've tried texting her, obviously, but she's blocked me on everything.

Mari's dancing with Rosie, Seema, Jayce and Jayce's idiot friends. The girls are all decent dancers, but the boys - I mean, what is it with boys and dancing, anyway? Some of them are O.K., but a lot of them just sort of jab their hips from side to side like giant windshield wipers. Jayce is bouncing around in his stupid sagged pants and his stupid sideways snapback like he's some kind of hip-hop hypebeast icon and not a suburban white wannabe.

Mari, of course, is doing her own thing - that spacey, arm-wavey, head-noddy hippie dance she always does whether the D.J. plays ASAP Rocky, Taylor Swift or BTS. It's completely derpy, and also completely adorable.

She has to listen to me. She has to come back to me.

I push through the dancers and the human windshield wipers, and Rosie shoots a look my way that practically freezes my soul. But I keep going because I am a woman on a mission.

Then I'm standing in front of Mari, and she's looking at me like what do you want?

"I have to tell you something," I say.

She takes a beat longer to think about this than I would have thought was absolutely necessary, but then she says, "Um. O.K."

Which is when Jayce blows in on a gust of cologne and drapes his arm over her shoulders. Ugghhh. Why.

"Hey, Yoon!" he says. I hate it when people who hardly know me shorten my name like we're friends or something, but Jayce is probably too clueless to realize that we aren't friends and I hate him. Or possibly he's just being a jerk.

"Hey, Jayce," I say. Be nice, Yuna. Be. Nice.

"Hey, babe," he says to Mari next. Old Mari would have rolled her eyes because who says hey babe, but New Mari sweetly hey babes him back, and it's a major, major, major battle for me not to roll my eyes hard enough for the two of us, grab her hand and walk away.

"Hey, Yoon," says Jayce again. "We're going to slide to Seema's later for a party. Wanna come? It's gonna be liiiit," and he mimes smoking a joint, which is the biggest bunch of BS ever because everyone knows that Seema's parents would never allow her to have a party, let alone a party with weed.

So I say, "No you're not."

"Naw, f'real," says Hip-Hop McSlangypants. "No caps."

I say, "I think it's 'no cap,' actually." Even I know that.

"Thanks, Yuna. I really appreciate how much you care," Mari deadpans, and I panic.

"Mari, I'm sorry. That's not what I - "

Rosie appears at Mari's side and says in a voice that's barely this side of a snarl, "Just leave, Yuna. She's moved on."

That knocks the breath out of me. Reeling, I do what I always do when I'm hurt: pretend I don't care. I shape my mouth into a smile and say, "Oh, right. Sorry to intrude. Have fun getting liiiiit."

I turn and make the long, lonely trek back across the gym.

I walk fast, but not too fast, like I don't even care, like I have better things to do than hang with these losers. I don't turn around, not even once. At the door, I sneak a peek over my shoulder to see what kind of impression my dignified exit has made. But they're already dancing again, as if they've forgotten all about me.
Why this photo: Something about this photograph made me feel as if I was in the crowd but not of it, which is a feeling that I love to write about. The scowl (and the lipstick) on the woman in the center of the frame grabbed my attention immediately, but the lone woman on the right intrigued me, too; after trying to write from each of their perspectives, I finally settled on writing as the ultimate outsider - the viewer. My story is a contemporary American riff on the photograph, but I love knowing that Tokyo had a Western-style club scene in the '50s and that drew me in as well. - M.S.
Misa Sugiura is the author of "This Time Will Be Different" and "It's Not Like It's a Secret," which won an Asian/Pacific American Award for Young Adult Literature. She grew up outside Chicago.
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"Always start with the eye."

Hongyue watched as Shen laoshi dipped his calligraphy brush with one swift, elegant motion into the ink stone, then swiped the brush head against its side, intuitively and without thought. He then painted the bird's eye with small, precise strokes on the near-translucent rice paper.

She had observed her art teacher demonstrate countless times before, but could never get over the awe she felt when he painted for them. Within minutes sometimes, with a fluidity and assuredness that made her envious, a creature would suddenly appear on the paper: a hummingbird or a rabbit or a horse.

Like magic.

"Because if you don't capture the spirit of your subject in its gaze" - Shen laoshi continued to paint as he lectured - "there is no point in going forward. No matter how technically correct your painting might be, how perfect your strokes, none of that matters." His hand danced over the rice paper, and his entire body shifted with him as he painted. A sharp beak appeared, then the bird's head, followed by a tufted chest in gray.

"As brush artists, we aren't replicating precisely what our eyes see. We are not photographers." He lifted his chin then and grinned at them, the handful of students clustered at the large walnut table around him. "As artists, we infuse life with our brush strokes." A wing emerged, the round body then the tail, its feathers appeared with quick and bold strokes before he swirled his brush in a bowl of clear water. Her teacher then dashed a streak of orange on top of the bird's head and a dab on its beak. Pausing, he considered the small painting before adding a fat gray worm, dangling from the bird's pointed beak.

"Our aim is to elicit emotion through our art. To touch this" - he tapped two fingertips against his chest - "that is the way we connect and speak to the viewer." He finally whisked long, thin strokes of verdant green around the plump bird, suggesting wild grass, before setting the calligraphy brush down. "This is your next assignment, to paint a bird of your choice and capture its spirit on paper." He nodded once and took a step back, so Hongyue and her fellow classmates could examine his painting closely. No one spoke as they studied the bird. She noted the delicate variations of ink from black to the most subtle gray, a whisper on the page.

Her teacher made it look so easy, effortless. But Hongyue knew better. She often felt her heart lifting as she painted, her focus only on her creation. But what she intended to express on paper almost never came to fruition as she wanted. Lacking.

She thanked her teacher respectfully before saying farewell, just like all her other Chinese classmates did. The humidity hit her like a wall the moment she stepped outside Shen laoshi's ground-floor studio. New York City's Chinatown was filled with throngs of people out on a Saturday afternoon, grocery shopping and meeting with friends to eat at the various small cafes and restaurants lining the cramped streets. She navigated the crowds instinctively, with her head down, watching her red Converse move across the filthy sidewalks as she mulled over everything her teacher had said.

Instead of going straight home to the cramped one-bedroom tenement she shared with her mom and younger brother, she veered from the familiar path and ducked into Columbus Park. The mostly concrete plaza was as busy as the main streets. Seniors huddled at various stone tables, many playing Chinese chess. Some sat on wooden benches, reading the Chinese paper, while others chatted animatedly in Cantonese and Mandarin, exchanging gossip and sharing pieces of cut fruit.

Hongyue managed to find an empty bench in the far corner of the park, underneath a large tree. Leaning back against the hard wooden slats, she absorbed the energetic hum around her, the mingling of voices and movement, how the barely-there summer breeze rustled the leaves overhead, stirring the straight, black bangs of a little girl intently eating an ice cream cone. A sharp trill from above caught Hongyue's attention, and she lifted her head up. A small bird perched in the hollow of the tree spiraling above her bench. It had a bright yellow head, throat and chest, with gray wings highlighted in white lines - perfect for painting.

The bird continued to sing its song, alternately sticking its tail out so Hongyue got a clear view of it before turning and offering her an opportunity to study its head and chest. It had a thick beak and looked briefly down at her with black eyes. She enjoyed its singing for a few minutes before an old Chinese woman stopped nearby, following Hongyue's gaze. "Ah, a warbler," she said in a raspy voice. "I love listening to them." She squinted at the bird, the corners of her eyes creasing with deep lines. "This one is female," she went on. "Their color is not as bright." The woman closed her eyes, obviously enjoying the warbler's trilling song. "I love birds," she said, opening her eyes and meeting Hongyue's gaze. "Don't you?"

Hongyue nodded. "They're a classic brush painting subject."

The old woman's eyebrows lifted. "Indeed." She smiled and dipped her chin as if she were a queen, then walked on.

Hongyue glanced at the bright warbler again, tucked in the small hollow, before heading home.

The apartment was empty when she let herself in.

She quickly gathered her brush painting supplies, wanting to capture the bird she still saw so clearly in her mind's eye. Spreading sheets of the Chinese newspaper on the small, square kitchen table set against the window, Hongyue filled a ceramic bowl with water, then spooned a little into her ink stone. She ground fresh ink. When she was satisfied the ink was dark enough, she placed a new sheet of rice paper onto the table.

Usually, Hongyue painted slowly and with care, stopping often to gauge her progress. But today, she put brush to paper without hesitation, remembering the bird's keen gaze as she started with its eye as Shen laoshi had instructed, the quick movements of its head, and the swish of its tail. She heard the clear notes of the warbler's birdsong as she tinged its crown and nape in green, then painted delicate white lines on its wings. Astounded, she took a step back when she realized she had finished without pausing, as if compelled. The spirited yellow bird she had glimpsed less than an hour ago stared back at her from the page.

Only one thing was missing.

Hongyue gathered white paint into a sharp point on her brush and dotted the bird's eye, adding light to its gaze. She let out a breath, then grinned widely, her chest filling with pride.

When she set her brush down, one sharp trill filled the kitchen.

Her hand jerked, and the brush rolled off the ceramic rest. Hongyue slanted her head and glanced out the window. The dark panes of other tenements stared back at her. Had she imagined it? Another sharp note reverberated through the small kitchen, and she thrust the window open and leaned over the table, sticking her nose out. No birds were near the narrow ledge; a taxi's insistent honking the only noise from outside.

She drew back inside, but yelped when a flurry of movement darted past her vision, lifting a strand of her hair. Then it was gone; Hongyue blinked her eyes hard.

The sound of the deadbolt unlocking broke her reverie, and she heard her mom's and brother's voices behind the closed door. Excited, she reached for the bird painting to show them, then snatched her arm back.

Her mom found Hongyue frozen at the kitchen table, hand fisted over her chest, staring down at a pristine sheet of rice paper.

Mrs. Li smiled and asked, "What will you paint today, daughter?"
Why this photo: I was delighted to see this image of Chinese brush artists in New York City's Chinatown. I've been a student of Chinese brush painting for almost two decades, and this creative expression has really become intrinsic to my own identity. It's very rarely I get an opportunity to write about something so important to me in fiction. I'm so grateful I was able to in this piece. -C.P.
Cindy Pon is a writer and a longtime student of Chinese brush painting. She is the author of "Want," "Serpentine" and "Silver Phoenix." She grew up in Los Angeles.
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Top image: A Tokyo motorcycle ride. Circa 1966. Photograph by John Launois/Copyright the Estate of John Launois.

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Viewfinders: 10 Y.A. Novelists Spin Fiction From Vintage Photos (Published 2019)

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A Tokyo motorcycle ride. Circa 1966. Photograph by John Launois/Copyright the Estate of John Launois. Past Tense The New York Times invited Asian-American authors to choose photos from our archives and write short young-adult fiction inspired by them. A Tokyo motorcycle ride. Circa 1966. Photograph by John Launois/Copyright the Estate of John Launois.

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The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took only about two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"-eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted-as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program-by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?," there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them into the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves' barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up-of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Mrs., Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now," Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar," several people said. "Dunbar, Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar," he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me, I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband," Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen yet," Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for m'mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, Jack," and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names-heads of families first-and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi, Steve," Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, "Hi, Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

"Allen," Mr. Summers said. "Anderson. . . . Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast," Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark. . . . Delacroix."

"There goes my old man," Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely, and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt. . . . Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries," Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke. . . . Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson." The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe," Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family, that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said. "There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Every body saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be," Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks," Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.

Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her. ♦

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Fiction, from 1948: "The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around."

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https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/fiction

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“Mitzvah”

“Praying is super easy. Much easier than talking to girls.”

June 20, 2022

“Houyhnhnm”

“How do you chart the loss of normal?”

June 13, 2022

“Trash”

“I didn’t think of things like that, impressions—first impressions—what they mean and how people don’t change their feelings about you even years after.”

June 6, 2022

“The Boy Upstairs”

“The message read: Can we talk? Somebody needs to tell you.”

May 30, 2022

“Invisible Bird”

“Occasionally, increasingly, we’d stay in a hostel if we had the money, or else on the street if we didn’t.”

May 23, 2022

“Occupational Hazards”

“Duties included: receiving instruction from Hajji Atal to head to Kabul (alone) with an allotment of cash.”

May 16, 2022

“The Face in the Mirror”

“He had his phone in his hands and he had reversed the camera, and he saw that the face looking back at him was not his at all.”

May 9, 2022

“Nondisclosure Agreement”

“I’d quit without giving notice. It had felt satisfying. It had felt redemptive. ‘Don’t think about ever coming back here,’ my team leader had told me.”

May 2, 2022

“The Repugnant Conclusion”

“Love wasn’t a slumber party with your best friend. Love was dangerous, violent, with an element of something repulsive.”

April 18, 2022

“Just a Little Fever”

“She was always racing for the end of the story. She always wanted to get started on the next thing.”

April 11, 2022

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A collection of articles about Fiction from The New Yorker, including news, in-depth reporting, commentary, and analysis.

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https://www.nytimes.com/column/learning-mentor-texts

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Demystifying the writing process via examples students can learn from and emulate.