Teju Cole continues to devastate in 140 characters or less.
ProPublica: Everything we know so far about drone strikes
Rep. Kyrsten Sinema, first Congressperson to officially describe her religion as “none,” is sworn in not on the Bible, but on the document she’s actually supposed to be protecting and upholding—the Constitution.
Edit: She’s also the first openly bisexual Congressperson. (via eyesdriftskyward)
[Fun fact: James Madison remains the only president to take his oath of office on a book of laws, rather than the Bible.]
While making no commentary on the religious angle at play, doesn’t it seem like using the U.S. Constitution for swearing-ins makes a lot more sense, as a function of government?
Instead of watching the ball drop, I’m watching Congress drop the ball.
My aunt, who works with the Department of Education. She’s been afraid of social media because of the Hatch Act, but she joined Facebook three months ago and LinkedIn two days ago. She’s contemplating “twitting” (“Oh, I guess that’s not the term… does one ‘tweet’?”), but Tumblr isn’t on her radar, so she asked that I share this comment on her New Year’s activity - which involved watching fiscal cliff coverage on C-SPAN - because she’s convinced she’s poised for internet fame.
(She only thought up this quip yesterday, but claims she would have thought of it sooner were she on Twitter. My uncle walked into the kitchen as she was telling me all of this and asked “Again?”)
I haven’t talked to you in months and the feel of the weight from my shoulders has left me feeling as though any money put toward chiropracty would have been better saved for rent in an apartment that wasn’t filled with mostly your furniture but only my body by the time we gave notice and I woke up to realtors assessing the shit done by two college kids and a dozen mice in the course of a year because if Achebe taught us anything things fall apart and I was still playing refrigerator chess with your October takeout in May because you spent the months between the days of the dead and mothers commuting between homeroom and your home room, but really I just want to thank you because the roommate I no longer had in that apartment made room for the bedmate I did to stay and play house and rehearse for this apartment that’s filled with mostly others’ furniture but only our bodies
And hopefully no mice.
I stepped on a mousetrap at work the other day while chalking an ad for fall classes on the the blackboard in one of our front windows and a third-grader in my Magic Treehouse Adventures class told me he doesn’t believe in imagination, but then I had a second-grader tell me I was his queen before parading me around the room and a woman getting on the train before mine handed me a dress and said I should keep it because it looks like it would fit me and she was heading to the consignment shop anyway.
“The house in the photographs is a large, unoccupied house belonging to my extended family. When a young woman disobeyed, stepped outside the permissible space, she was sent to this house. Accompanied by servants, but spoken to by no one, she would spend a month alone. In this silence, women can only be confined visions of femininity. In photographing women inscribed with henna, I emphasize their decorative role, but subvert the silence of confinement. These women speak visually to the house and to each other, creating a space that is both hierarchical and fluid. As an artist now living in the West, I have become aware of another space, besides the house of my girlhood, an interior space, one of converging territories. I will always carry that house within me, but my current life has added other dimensions. I am very much interested in a way of becoming a bridge, because I want to make it known that Orientalist paintings are just Western male fascination and a fantasy. I want people to understand that. I’m not laying blame on anyone, but I want people to acquire a different kind of seeing. I want them to synthesize themselves with these situations where women are portrayed so they would start seeing other things than sexual exploitation.”
Lalla Essaydi, Les Femmes du Maroc: La Grande Odalisque, 2008.
I want to be someone you think about when you’ve got thirty minutes to eat your lunch and instead of eating, you’re texting me and sitting on on a milk crate, “Last night was great and yeah, who doesn’t love Daft Punk?”
I want to be a woman worthy of wearing your old band shirts, your polos, and basketball shorts. I want to smell of your 3-in-1 bodywash every other day, the very bodywash that I criticized the minute I walked into your bathroom to pee shouting “You don’t really use this for your body and your hair, do you?” and you responded “I didn’t realize the toilet was in my shower.”
I want to meet your father, your mother, and sister. I want you to meet my broken, funny, loud, dysfunctional, but perfect family; I want my mother and aunts to approve of you.
I do want to think that I’m enough even if you could have better. I want you to tell me if I snore at night or that my hair is clogging your shower drain or call me a fucking stupid bitch and it’s only when I throw a punch and break my fist on your jaw that you realize that I wasn’t kidding when I told you on day one that I was insane, you take me to the ER and say, “Babe, you were right.”