IT’S A DAY of rest, and you may be in the mood for a quiet corner and a comfy chair. We’ve hand-picked the week’s best reads for you to savour this Sunday.
Along with providing classes on black nationalism and socialism, Newton made sure recruits learned how to clean, handle, and shoot guns. Their instructors were sympathetic black veterans, recently home from Vietnam. For their “righteous revolutionary struggle,” the Panthers were trained, as well as armed, however indirectly, by the US government.
Here, finally, was the heart of the place, a vast, open-sided shed filled with deafening noise and the blast of heat from furnaces operating at 1,200 degrees Celsius. The men visible through the smoke and noise were infernal creatures, rags wrapped around their faces to protect themselves from the heat.
I remember a mounting protective instinct, heightened by the birth of my second daughter almost exactly nine months after the attacks. Something dreadful was loose in the world, and the urge to stop it, to do something — to prove something — was overriding a career-long schooling in the virtues of caution and skepticism.
Three teenagers were clustered around the cell phone, heads almost touching as they peered at the video. “Eww…that’s nasty.” A surge of excitement, of almost electric disgust, passed between them. It was Monday after the long Thanksgiving weekend.
This morning the Somali refugees are trying, again, to bury a child in his new city. Henok Ochalla sees them digging up red earth with their hatchets. He stops his SUV, plods over to the parents and tells them this camp is a place for life, not a cemetery.
In 2008, a city audit revealed thousands of untested rape kits sitting in LAPD freezers, some for longer than 10 years. In April, the backlog was finally cleared, a process made possible only through the cobbling together of public funds, federal grants and private donations as small as $5.
…AND A CLASSIC READ FROM THE ARCHIVES…
By tradition, the chiefs must sew their own costumes, and must do a new costume from scratch each year. Mr. Bannock’s fingers are scarred from a lifetime of it. His right index finger is a mass of old punctures. Some men cripple themselves, through puncture wounds or repetitive motion, and have to retire.