Women journalists and news anchors seem to me to write and host the best pieces on Trump; a few weeks ago now Rebecca Solnit wrote one of the best accounts of Trump's real career as a failed semi-criminal businessman; well in The New Yorker, Emily Nussbaum has written a counterpart to Solnit: Nussbaum's essay demonstrates how Trump's invented identity on TV; the reality show, The Apprentice, made this presidency possible:
Then turn to Amy Goodman and Allan Nairn to hear what's happening that matters behind the circus show of Russia (mercenary colonialism returns):
Even the studiously neutral and carefulJudy Woodruff has her moments: tonight she reminded of what the triad nucleat set up is; on the website several pieces o the US arsenaland do watch who's at the trigger when the president calls a nuclear strike:
Not to omit Emma Lazarus who will become another foremother poet in a blog to come: a statue not of a killer-hero, but a mother with a torch of welcome and light: Like so many 19th century women writers, she was once almost a household word; like many American writers until the Post World War Two era, when the FBI and all sorts of organizations went after socialists, progressives, anything leftist, she was socialist -- Wm Dean Howells was a socialist, no one more centrally mid-western American, he was editor of the Atlantic for years and years. Nowadays she is only known by the one poem by a vast majority of people might not be able to tell you the name of the author. Carved onto the Statue of Liberty. The New Colossus:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her b eacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
All four of my grandparent were immigrants; they came through Ellis Island from Poland. My father didn't speak any English until he was about 7; by 8 he was utterly fluent in English, reading and writing but for the rest of his life could slowly make his way through a little written Polish. My husband, Jim, was an immigrant, born in Hampshire, England.