Feeds
In the hushed darkness of a crowded theater, the spotlight finds a young man in a wheelchair at center stage, his hands clenched, his head tilted, his motionless body leaning to one side. His first words are a declaration, uttered with a sense of urgency.
Mitt Romney cruises down two-lane blacktops, past combines churning up clouds of dust harvesting corn, on his way to one more gathering, one more step on a long journey.
In a quiet park on the eastern edge of this auto manufacturing town, a gleaming ring of black granite walls and monuments stand in solemn tribute to the war dead. Hundreds of names are etched in stone, many of them long forgotten to history.
The eviction of Occupy Wall Street demonstrators in Manhattan was a dramatic turn in a nearly two-month standoff, inspiring howls of protest from the protesters and their supporters. But New York and other cities that have cracked down appear to have the law — and history — on their side.
Imagine a city where winters are frigid enough for polar bears, where a baseball team is so woebegone it hasn't won the World Series since Model Ts puttered down the streets and where electoral shenanigans are summed up in the cheeky phrase, "vote early, vote often."
Ten years after America began its war in Afghanistan, the decade can be measured by different yardsticks: Dollars. Deployments. Deaths.
The hospital had always been there for the victims of calamity. It had saved lives, healed the desperately sick, patched up the bruised and bloodied and made them whole again.
White-gloved workers line the long tables, carefully sifting through photos of proms and weddings, baby's first day, proud soldiers in their uniforms. They gently clean off any dirt, dry rain-damaged pictures — and salvage a city's lost treasures.
Old photos don't stir memories for Jean-Claude Goldbrenner, but words do.
There are girls with ribbons in their hair, boys in short pants or wool jackets (one even wears a discarded Hitler Youth uniform). There are teens and toddlers. There are kids who look happy, sad, scared, tense and relieved — greatly relieved.
It was a monumental project with modest beginnings: a small group of scholars and some index cards. The plan was to explore a long-dead language that would reveal an ancient world of chariots and concubines, royal decrees and diaries — and omens that came from the heavens and sheep livers.
Rocky Clark sometimes dreams he's running track, racing around the oval as he once did, his heart pumping fast and his long legs a blur as he crossed the finish line.
Every day at sundown, the gutted shell of the last Cabrini Green public housing tower takes on a ghostly aura as lights start flickering sporadically from 15 floors of empty rooms.
The mother from Cameroon came to immigration court bearing scars: She'd been imprisoned back home, she said, beaten with cables, burned with cigarettes and raped repeatedly, contracting HIV. Her husband had died behind bars; her three children she'd left behind were struggling to survive.
Kesnel Sineus thought he was following all the rules in his bid for asylum.
It was supposed to be just a night in jail for Juan Carlos Davalos. He'd serve his time, then go home.
Every morning, they don their black robes, take their seats and listen to the pleas of a long line of immigrants desperate to stay in America. The pace is fast, the pressure intense, the stories sometimes haunting. The work, these judges say, is exhausting:
Olga Guzman knew there was no way she'd be able to crawl in the chilly waters of the Rio Grande. Not with a bulging belly and a child due in weeks.
Mercy Victor had a blueprint for starting over.
The mother from Cameroon came to immigration court bearing scars: She'd been imprisoned back home, she said, beaten with cables, burned with cigarettes and raped repeatedly, contracting HIV. Her husband had died behind bars; her three children she'd left behind were struggling to survive.
Olga Guzman knew there was no way she'd be able to crawl in the chilly waters of the Rio Grande. Not with a bulging belly and a child due in weeks.
Mercy Victor had a blueprint for starting over.
Every morning, they don their black robes, take their seats and listen to the pleas of a long line of immigrants desperate to stay in America. The pace is fast, the pressure intense, the stories sometimes haunting. The work, these judges say, is exhausting:
She scoured the streets day and night, venturing into strange and sometimes dicey neighborhoods. She wore a hat, sturdy shoes and a camera, always a camera, around her neck and at the ready.
Rahm Emanuel, candidate for mayor of Chicago, stood before the microphone in the cavernous warehouse and in a somber voice, announced that he was finally getting a chance to publicly utter a four-letter word.
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