|—||Stephen Hawking (via likeafieldmouse)|
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via oliviacirce)
When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.
I’m really glad I read that.
the best headline i’ve ever read.
yes. apparently a kid was screaming in line behind him about wanting pie, so he bought every single one. 23 pies. then slowly ate them as he stared at the kid and kid’s mom.
This is amazing
OKAY so my mom found this article (or one about the same event) on Facebook. Basically what happened was, this guy went into BK with a headache, and while he was in line this kid and his mother enter the restaurant. The kid begins throwing a fit, screaming (I quote) “I want a fucking pie!” This is a child, mind you. His mother, on the phone, ignores the kid. The man’s headache got worse because of this screaming kid and he asked the woman if she could control her child. She told him to stop telling him how to raise her kid and went back to talking on the phone. So the guy orders his burger and all the pies they had- 23. He proceeded to the exit, only to hear the woman yell, “What do you mean, you don’t have any pies?” The cashier helplessly points out the man who bought all the pies. Our hero, to rub salt in the wound, slowly starts eating a pie before leaving.
I’d do this.
High voltage art by Phillip Stearns
Stearns on his project:
I’m unable to find the source of the sentiment that the camera is an extension of the eye, but it’s that very idea which I’ve intentionally taken literally, to an extreme. When looking through the datasheets on various instant color film, I was struck by the similarities between the layering of materials in the film and the layering of cells in the retinal. Though I’m not well versed in the history of film development as parallels the development in the understanding of the physiology of the retinal, the similarities were striking…
Without a camera, images were produced through a combination of processes which parallel techniques utilized in previous experiments with low-resolution digital cameras. Various household chemicals are applied to the surface of the film both before and after exposure. Through symbolic act of cleansing, the fidelity of the film is compromised. The film is also subjected to 15,000 volts of alternating current. In a flash, arcs spread out across the surface, sometimes burning holes, even igniting the film. As in our eyes, images are conveyed in a stream of such electric impulses, only here amplified some 300,000 times. I find it curious and exhilarating that the impressions left behind after developing these extreme exposures so perfectly resemble networks of blood vessels in the retina.
You can see his process in this video:
If you claim to be a feminist and you shame girls for wanting to do traditional things like take their husband’s last name or be a house wife then you are doing it all completely wrong.
Feminism isn’t an elite group who defeats gender norms, it’s a group who accepts ALL women’s choices.