We know now that the largest recorded fire in New Mexico history was started by an escaped “prescribed burn,” or rather by two. The Hermit’s Peak fire bolted away on April 6, when unexpectedly gusty winds blew sparks beyond control lines.
It was an ordinary Valentine’s Day four years ago when my class was interrupted by incoming news of an active shooter in a Florida high school. On Feb. 14, 2018, a 19-year-old opened fire on students and staff at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, but the impacts were far-reaching indeed.
“The threats became much more specific, much more graphic, and included not just me by name but included members of my family…” This is how Al Schmidt, the former City Commissioner of Philadelphia and a Republican member of the election board, described the intimidation he faced during and after the 2020 election.
“They were at places that seemed safe — but few spaces in America are guaranteed safe anymore.”
Fifty-five years ago this month, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. published his fourth and final book: “Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or Community?” In it, he described the turmoil then engulfing American cities as representing a new phase in the struggle for freedom: as a shift from a primary focus on dismantling Southern apartheid to a broader grappling with racism and economic inequality nationwide. Extending his analysis globally, Dr. King called for an end to the madness of the Vietnam War, for an eradication of global poverty, and for a recognition of nonviolence as the only sane path forward.
Before the COVID-19 pandemic rocked the world, factory workers were humming along, assembling products just after components were delivered. It was called “just-in-time” production. It was efficient, predictable and cost-effective.
In my drought- and fire-plagued home valley, 40 miles north of San Francisco, a debate has been simmering for decades over a massive development planned on state-owned property.
I’m beyond fed up that the gender of the murderers are still largely absent from conversations about America’s mass shootings crisis.
On a summer morning in southern Idaho, the day breaks early, before 6 a.m. The air is stale, never fully cooled from the heat of the day before.
Historical memory can fade over time. Born in 1942, I’ve watched it happen.
