Between the three-way phone calls with one person listening on mute and the tone of an 11-year-old’s diary, this blog feels awfully familiar.
From the Unslut Project Tumblr: “I was the 6th-grade ‘slut.’ And I kept a diary. Here it is, word-for-word.”
The goal: “Working to undo the dangerous slut shaming in our schools, communities, media and culture by sharing knowledge and experiences.”
Sam Pinter waited in the barbershop he’s owned since the ’60s for the water to come back on and for someone to need a trim.
When he first saw the mushroom cloud of smoke Wednesday night, he thought North Korea had finally lobbed a missile at the United States. When he reopened his shop Friday morning, the first haircut he gave was to a man who said he had lost his son to the explosion at the fertilizer plant that devastated so much of the town.
The media waited for news about the explosion and the missing, and many residents seemed to be waiting for the scrum of reporters to leave, batting away questions they had already answered.
“I’m tired,” said one man, sitting alone in his store on Main Street.
Virginia Zatopek waited on a corner of Oak Street, where she could see her house, though she was forbidden to visit. Her husband, Royce, used binoculars to see if he could spot any broken windows.
Her property was among those in a five-block area to which residents were allowed to return Saturday afternoon, the first foray into a blast zone of destroyed homes and apartments and damaged buildings.
"We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try."
— Roger Ebert, via NPR (via elisehu)
All her life, she subscribed to the belief that “everything is copy,” a phrase her mother, Phoebe, used to say. In fact, when Phoebe was on her deathbed, she told my mother, “Take notes.” She did. What both of them believed was that writing has the power to turn the bad things that happen to you into art (although “art” was a word she hated). “When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you; but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh,” she wrote in her anthology “I Feel Bad About My Neck.” “So you become the hero rather than the victim of the joke.”
— Jacob Bernstein on his mother, Nora Ephron