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A Hong Kong è tornata la violenza: di nuovo scontri tra polizia e manifestanti

Al lancio di mattoni e molotov le forze dell'ordine rispondono con cariche in tenuta antisommossa e lacrimogeni. Tra gli obiettivi della protesta anche l'installazione di una serie di “lampioni intelligenti”, che secondo alcuni conterrebbero telecamere a riconoscimento...


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‘This could have been a Breonna Taylor:’ Police stormed a Black student’s dorm after a false report
Christin Evans’ family called for the university to take action against the students who made the false report, which they believe was racially motivated.
washingtonpost.com
Trump, Biden get ready in different ways for their first debate
foxnews.com
Elon Musk Helps Washington Town Destroyed by Wildfires by Supplying Starlink Internet for Free
Space X's Starlink project aims to beam high-speed internet to Earth, with "near global coverage" potentially possible next year
newsweek.com
Mexico asks U.S. to "clarify" alleged hysterectomies on migrant women
A former nurse at a privately run detention center in Georgia said women in ICE custody were sterilized without understanding why.
cbsnews.com
‘This is a nightmare’: New Yorkers get absentee ballots with the wrong return envelope
Scores of New Yorkers reported on Monday that they’d received mixed-up return envelopes, which would invalidate their votes if they tried to mail them in.
washingtonpost.com
6 Questions Ahead Of The 1st Trump-Biden Presidential Debate
The first presidential debate is high stakes. Can Trump avoid the sitting-president first-debate slump? Does Biden come across competently? And how personal will it get?
npr.org
Trump's Supreme Court pick on Capitol Hill for meeting with GOP senators
President Donald Trump's nominee for the Supreme Court, Judge Amy Coney Barrett, will meet Republican senators throughout Tuesday on Capitol Hill, as the party finalizes plans for a quick confirmation process ahead of the November presidential election.
edition.cnn.com
The Children Who Desegregated America’s Schools
In 1954, the Supreme Court decided that segregation of public schools was unconstitutional—but it was thousands of children who actually desegregated America’s classrooms. The task that fell to them was a brutal one.In the years following Brown v. Board of Education, vicious legal and political battles broke out; town by town, Black parents tried to send their children to white schools, and white parents—and often their children, too—tried to keep those Black kids out. They tried everything: bomb threats, beatings, protests. They physically blocked entrances to schools, vandalized lockers, threw rocks, taunted and jeered. Often, the efforts of white parents worked: Thousands upon thousands of Black kids were barred from the schools that were rightfully theirs to attend.But eventually, in different places at different times, Black parents won. And that meant that their kids had to walk or take the bus to a school that had tried to keep them out. And then they had to walk in the door, go to their classrooms, and try to get an education—despite the hatred directed at them, despite the knowledge that their white classmates didn’t want them there, and despite being alone. They changed America, but in large part, that change was not lasting. As they grew older, many of them watched as their schools resegregated, and their work was undone.Those kids are in their 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s now. Many of them are no longer with us. But those who are have stories to tell.Here are five of them.Hugh Price and his family fought for him to be one of the first Black students at his all-white high school in Washington, D.C. But once he was there, he “couldn’t wait for it to be over.” Jo Ann Allen Boyce and 11 other students desegregated their high school in Clinton, Tennessee. Then the riots came. Sonnie Hereford IV desegregated Alabama’s public schools in 1963. He was only 6 years old. Millicent Brown changed Charleston, then watched it stay the same. Frederick K. Brewington’s education came at the end of a bitter civil-rights battle that engulfed New York state, more than a decade after the Court’s Brown v. Board decision.
theatlantic.com
Senate to take procedural vote to advance stopgap spending bill to avert shutdown
The Senate is scheduled to vote Tuesday evening to advance a stopgap spending bill to avert a government shutdown.
edition.cnn.com
The New York Town That Tried to Stop Desegregation
Editor’s Note: This is the fifth story in The Firsts, a five-part series about the children who desegregated America’s schools.It was February 23, 1966, and Frederick K. Brewington had to walk less than a mile to get to school. He and his mom had mapped the routes: He would cross the street and enter the band of trees, tramping over the rocks in the creek. He would emerge from the trees to Bob Whelan Field, then trek across Ocean Avenue, the thoroughfare that cut the district in half. The side streets would carry him from there to Lindner Place Elementary.It was the first day of court-ordered desegregation in the Malverne School District on Long Island, New York, more than a decade after the Brown v. Board of Education decision ordered the integration of the nation’s schools. Black people in the area would often say theirs was a city “an ocean apart.” White Americans have long used railroads, highways, and bridges as dividing lines, and Ocean Avenue, Malverne’s dividing line, was no different. It segregated the town: With few exceptions, white families primarily lived west of it, in Malverne, and Black families lived to the east, in an area known as Lakeview. The schools had been segregated, too. So for Brewington and hundreds of other Black children in the area, after years of demonstrations and legal battles, that brisk, sunny day in February had been a long time coming.Brewington’s family had migrated to Nassau County from the Carolinas in the 1920s. His grandfather, Levi Chapman, was a porter on the railroad—one of the best jobs available to Black men at the time. Chapman and his wife bought a house on Pinelake Drive, where they raised their seven children. Segregation was not quite as rigid as it was in the South, and they quickly broke barriers. Brewington’s mother, Mabel, was one of the first Black students to graduate from Malverne High School, which she did in 1940. Frederick was born 16 years later, on December 11, 1956.Brewington in elementary school (Courtesy of Frederick Brewington)As the years went by, residential segregation meant that the district schools were marked by racial imbalance. There was only one high school in the district, so segregation was most apparent at the three elementary schools. Woodfield Road School, to the east in Lakeview, was at least three-quarters Black. Meanwhile, the Davison Avenue and Lindner Place schools were less than 15 percent Black. Brewington is not a “first” in a literal sense, but his story reveals how desegregation has never been a matter of just flipping a switch. In America, desegregation has not only been slow; it has also been cyclical—a seemingly endless loop of efforts, backlash, and efforts anew.Early in the 1960s, Black families and activists in the Long Island area who were fed up with the status quo began arguing that the state should do more to integrate its schools. Desegregating the schools—meaning having any Black students at all—was one thing, but too many Black students, the coalition argued, were locked out of the educational opportunities at Lindner Place and Davison. At Woodfield Road School, the teachers were phenomenal, Brewington told me, but the extracurriculars were limited. And, material differences aside, the schools were still essentially segregated, which meant they were unequal. Local civil-rights groups such as the Congress of Racial Equality and the NAACP stressed the need for equity in schools. And it seemed that the only way this would be achieved was through meaningful integration.Throughout 1962, the groups staged protests: picketing outside the elementary and junior-high schools; holding a 24-hour sit-in and fasting inside Malverne High. The state’s education commissioner, James Allen Jr., appointed a committee to study the problem. Many such commissions issued reports with little consequence, but when the three-member panel returned with its recommendations in May 1963, Allen acted. There was racial imbalance in the schools, the panel said, and it could be fixed through several methods, including a strategy known as a Princeton plan. The Princeton Borough Board of Education, in New Jersey, had implemented a scheme—which reassigned students based on grade to address racial imbalance—in the 1940s, and it had become a national model. In Malverne, for example, all students would attend kindergarten through third grade at Lindner Place or Davison; then they would attend Woodfield Road for the last two years of elementary school. The plan, the committee wrote, would “do the most to satisfy current complaints.”Children from Malverne and Lakeview take part in protests organized by CORE and NAACP. (Courtesy of Frederick Brewington)Allen took the committee up on its idea and proposed that the district begin implementing the plan in the fall of 1963. Malverne became the first city in New York with a state-designed integration plan, and a test case for what could be done more widely. But white parents, furious with the commissioner’s plan, quickly formed a group called the Taxpayers and Parents Association. They wanted their school district to remain the way it was—racially imbalanced—and quickly sued to block the plan from taking effect.“There were levels of discontent with Black children going to school with white children that were voiced and made very clear,” Brewington recently told me over Zoom from his office, a few miles from Malverne in Hempstead, New York. “I’ve had a chance as a lawyer now to go back and read some of the cases and the rulings by the courts, and you can read straight through—you don’t even need much of a filter to see where people were coming from.” School-board officials used the suit as cover to defy the commissioner’s order, arguing that they could not take any action until the litigation was resolved.The case went to the state supreme court, where, in January 1964, Justice Isadore Bookstein ruled that Allen’s plan violated a state law barring discrimination in admitting students to public schools. “In effect, Bookstein … held that Allen’s policy would discriminate against white pupils by forcing them out of schools in their own neighborhoods to make room for Negro children from Negro neighborhoods,” the Press & Sun-Bulletin, in Binghamton, New York, reported. Black activists fumed. “We are going into the streets to get justice,” Lloyd Delany, an executive member of the United Committee for Action Now, an organization in support of racial balance, told reporters. “The forces that are opposed to us should realize that we have been made more determined; surprised and dismayed, but determined.”They did not need to remain in the streets long. The court’s decision was quickly overturned by the state appellate court just six months later—meaning that the integration plan would go forward. Four months before the appeals-court decision, the school board proposed an alternate remedy—a school-choice plan, of sorts. Parents whose children attended the predominantly white schools were encouraged to send their students to the Woodfield Road school. And, as openings presented themselves, Black students would be able to enroll at Lindner Place and Davison. It was a plan destined to fail.The Taxpayers and Parents Association tied the ruling up in more litigation until, in October 1965, the U.S. Supreme Court declined to review the case, thereby upholding the lower court’s decision. The schools in the Malverne district would be forced to balance. One white parent filed a last-ditch civil action to block it—arguing that the plan violated the Civil Rights Act of 1964—but to no avail. By the middle of February 1966, a district judge dismissed the suit out of hand.On February 21, two days before Allen’s plan was slated to take effect, dozens of white moms, calling themselves Mothers to Protect Neighborhood Schools, protested outside Davison. They tried to prevent men who were transferring furniture for the older grades to Woodfield Road from loading the truck. They said it was the inconvenience they were protesting—the fact that their children would have to travel longer distances to get to school—not the integration, and they carried signs that read schools closed. minds closed. education is dead. They jumped into vans and blocked the movers’ paths; some broke into the school’s vestibule. Nine of the women were arrested.On March 29, 1966, a group demonstrated in Albany in favor of a bill to bar any directive ordering school integration through busing. Most demonstrators were from Long Island and Queens, a few from Buffalo and Syracuse. (Charles Harrity / AP)The following day, Mabel Ross Brewington sent her son through the woods to school. The 9-year-old Frederick was greeted by angry white parents, who stood outside as they dropped their children off. Arguments broke out between Black and white mothers and fathers.Roughly 45 white students were held out of school for several days by their parents. Brewington, for his part, does not remember anything particularly unsettling about his first year—though he does remember the jeers outside, and the other 9-year-olds who held signs saying give us back our school. He recalls the nastiness from white parents, the feeling that they did not want him at their school. “This is a good school,” Louis Caruso, a parent of a white Davison student, told a reporter for The Oneonta Star. “We bought homes to be near it and we’re not going to be shoved out.”Reporters spoke with Brewington when he arrived at school. They asked him how he felt; they asked how he had prepared for the day; they asked what his mom had told him. “She told me to be on my best behavior and not to walk on anybody’s lawn, because remember they don’t want you over there anyway,” he told them.When his mother picked up the paper the next day and saw the quote, she turned to him. His laugh boomed through my computer speakers as he remembered. “She goes, ‘Did you tell them that?’ and I said, ‘Yeah, that’s what you told me!’”Malverne’s school-integration fight didn’t end that February. Some white families began sending their children to private schools. Racist practices by real-estate agents further deepened residential segregation. People made the same arguments in new ways. Busing became the inconvenience. A bill in the New York State legislature, in April 1966, which would have banned busing, was panned by one Black New York lawmaker: “Bringing this bill to the floor of the Senate for debate and its passage gives comfort to every nut in the country who hates Negroes.”No, these fights do not end. They evolve.“He is sometimes called the Thurgood Marshall of Long Island,” The New York Times wrote of Brewington in a profile in 2003. He had just come off more than a decade of work arguing that the Hempstead election system discriminated against Black candidates—a case he had recently won. Brewington was born into a civil-rights battle, and he continues it today. And in Nassau County, he still sees injustice everywhere—how a drive down a road remains the difference between blight and affluence.Fred Brewington at his law offices in Hempstead, NY, where he’s still fighting for civil rights. (Bethany Mollenkoff)Two abutting school districts embody the dichotomy clearly, he told me: Hempstead Union Free School District and Garden City Public Schools. “As soon as you leave Hempstead, the canopy of the roads change, the broad byways open up, the yards become more lush,” he said. “If you sneeze while you’re driving down [Clinton Avenue], you’ll miss the point when it happens.” And as a Newsday investigation showed in 2019, the schools remain racially unbalanced. At Jackson Main Elementary in Hempstead, for example, fewer than 3 percent of the students are white, 70 percent are Hispanic, and 26 percent are Black. Locust Elementary School in nearby Garden City is 86 percent white.It is jarring to realize that the difference is as stark now as it was when Brewington was in school; it’s even more galling that the arguments for maintaining the status quo remain unchanged. The language used may be different, Brewington said, “but once you scratch the surface and unpeel the onion, you’re getting right down to those biases, getting down to those same levels of misinformation and hatred, and race does become a factor.”I spoke with Brewington in the weeks after George Floyd’s murder. The protests and increased support for the Black Lives Matter movement had created hope in him that things could be different in the future. But he was also worried that everything—the progress America has made—could fall off a cliff. “We really find ourselves at the precipice of a very important time in history,” he said. “The confluence of where we are now”—between a pandemic, an election, and a movement for justice—“could make things really different than where we’ve been in the past.”
theatlantic.com
The Persistence of Segregation in South Carolina
Editor’s Note: This is the fourth story in The Firsts, a five-part series about the children who desegregated America’s schools.Millicent Brown could only be honest. It was the summer of 1960, and she was standing in front of the school board in Charleston County, South Carolina. She was preparing to enter the seventh grade. The row of men—all white—studied her as they lobbed loaded questions her way. “Don’t you like your teachers?” one asked. “Don’t you like your friends?” asked another. The issue that ultimately lay beneath these questions was simple: Why did a Black child want to attend a white school?Sixty years later, Brown can remember how frustrated the interrogation made her. “How dare they try to make me speak ill of my Black community?” she says. But she didn’t bristle. “Oh, I love my teachers, and I love my friends, it’s not that at all,” she remembers saying. “It’s just that I know there are things and facilities that are made available to other schools that we don’t have. I’ve heard that there are lockers … I’ve never seen a locker in my life.”Millicent had not been prepared for the meeting. Earlier that day, her father had told her mother to get their daughter dressed in something nice, and then he whisked her off to the meeting with little explanation. But Millicent quickly realized that she must have said something right. Matthew J. Perry, the civil-rights lawyer from South Carolina who would become the first Black federal judge from the Deep South, was in town. When Millicent turned from the interrogating board members to Perry, his face gave away that she had performed admirably. He was beaming. Still: “I was always mad at my father for not preparing me,” she told me last year. The meeting established Millicent as the face of school desegregation in Charleston—the person whose name would forever be linked to dismantling the educational caste system in the city.It should have been her older sister Minerva. In 1959, four years after the Supreme Court ruled that segregated schools were inherently unequal, Millicent’s father, Joseph—who went by the name J. Arthur Brown—filed a lawsuit alongside the NAACP and other local families to integrate the port city’s schools. Minerva, a high schooler and an activist in her own right, was named as the lead plaintiff. But segregationists came ready for a fight.Beginning in 1951, the South Carolina legislature passed a general sales tax that anticipated a Supreme Court ruling on school segregation. The tax was intended for school construction: The state would build new Black elementary and high schools with modern architecture and materials so they could argue that they did not discriminate against Black students. The strategy was known as “school equalization,” and by the time the Court issued its second Brown ruling in 1955—that integration must happen “with all deliberate speed”—each district in South Carolina had, or was building, a separate school for Black students. The state was also trying to slow-walk Minerva’s suit.When Minerva was about to graduate, with no resolution to the case, Millicent became the lead plaintiff. Suddenly, she found herself in front of the school board, and became more aware of the magnitude of her father’s challenge to the system. She also began to understand just how intractable racism can be.Brown (top row, second from right) in a picture with the other plaintiffs in the NAACP suit (Courtesy of Millicent Brown)The Browns’ dinner table was often a sight to behold. Her father was a real-estate broker and, in 1955, became the president of the Charleston chapter of the NAACP, and later became the state NAACP president. When NAACP leaders came to town, they stayed with the Browns. Seeing such luminaries in her home “was foundational,” Brown told me. Among the visitors were Constance Baker Motley, the civil-rights lawyer who would become the first Black woman appointed to the federal bench; Roy Wilkins, the leader of the NAACP from 1955 to 1977; and Matthew Perry. “Whether I understood it all or not is doubtful,” she said. But “my great benefit in being around these people is that I learned not to see Black issues as any one small thing.”As Brown’s case worked its way through mediation and state courts, her father turned his attention to other fights, including the push to integrate other public accommodations—beaches, golf courses, and parks. (When a federal judge eventually ruled that all state parks must be opened to Black people, the state closed all of them for about a year to avoid complying. They didn’t fully integrate for another three years.)In late May 1962, arguing that they had exhausted all administrative remedies to integrate the public schools, lawyers representing Brown and seven other Black children filed a lawsuit in the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of South Carolina, where Judge Robert Martin presided. Five other Black children later joined the suit. They petitioned the court to force the district to stop assigning students to schools based on their race. By the time the case was heard by Martin in August 1963, the parents of six white students were seeking to join with the school board as co-defendants, claiming that their children would be adversely affected by integration.Just over two weeks after Martin heard the case, while the Browns were on vacation near Myrtle Beach, Millicent’s father opened the day’s newspaper and saw that Martin had issued the ruling. “I was excited because my parents were excited,” Brown said. Then her father began to read. The judge acknowledged that the Supreme Court’s rulings in Brown made it clear that the district could not legally bar Black students from attending formerly all-white schools. But, he wrote, the school year was set to begin in a handful of weeks, and it would be “impractical” to expect schools to be ready to integrate in such a short span of time. He cleared the way for Millicent and the other plaintiffs to enroll that fall—but other Black students would have to wait.Over the 12 days between Martin’s ruling and the first day of school, Millicent’s parents raced to prepare her. But of all the things that happened during that time, what she remembers most is Dippity-do. Brown’s oldest sister had offered to do her hair the night before her first day. “She brings out this gel called Dippity-do and so I washed my hair and she sets it because that’s the new way that Black women are doing their hair,” she said. But as she sat with her hair in rollers, she wondered if she had made a big mistake. “I don’t sleep that night because I’m going to represent the race the next day, and I realized that I never used this before,” she laughed. “What is this going to look like?”She may have been on the verge of walking into history, but she was still only 15 years old.Brown blowing candles on her birthday cake the summer she became the chief plaintiff (Courtesy of Millicent Brown)Millicent’s first day at Rivers High School in Charleston—September 3, 1963—went smoothly. There were no throngs of people jeering and throwing things. The mayor and the police chief had issued a statement the day before, urging people to stay away. “The people in Charleston have extremely good judgment. We have no patience with violence or with people who try to take the law into their own hands,” Mayor J. Palmer Gaillard told The New York Times. Her father walked her into the building, checked which class she would be assigned to, and then left. “My father was not one for prepping me,” she told me. “I guess he had faith in me.” But when she got to her homeroom class, the signs that this would not be easy were quickly apparent. They were written on her teacher’s face. “She looks like she’s about to have a hissy fit. She’s just nervous,” Brown said. “I spend the rest of that day and probably the next couple of days worried that I’m going to give this woman a heart attack.” That was likely the least of her worries: Three bomb threats were called in during those first days.When a newspaper reporter interviewed Brown about her experience, she gave a glowing review. “I had a wonderful day,” she said. “I heard no bad comments at all. All of the students and teachers went out of their way to be helpful.” However, as the days wore into months (and the months into years), the tone of the place changed. “I never learned what the signal was … but I would walk down the hallway and they would part like the Red Sea and go to the walls and cringe and make noises like I was a pariah of some sort,” she told me. “That’s the sort of thing you never forget.”There were other slights during Brown’s three years at Rivers. White girls would crowd into the bathroom stalls to keep her from using the restroom between classes. At large gatherings of the student body in the auditorium, when students would walk in pairs down the aisle to exit, white students refused to walk with her. After a while, one white student, Barbara Solomon, began to walk with her in the halls, but she was the exception.By her senior year, she had begun to fight back: When a white classmate wouldn’t walk with her on the way out of the auditorium, she held up the recessional for a minute until he finally relented.“I kind of got my backbone. I was not this little colored girl who’s just so happy to be at their school that I’m going to let y’all dictate to me how everything works,” she told me. “I had to grow into that.”Brown at her home in Charleston (Bethany Mollenkoff)After high school, Brown went to the College of Charleston, earned her master’s degree from The Citadel, and got a doctorate in history from Florida State University. For years, she taught history at Claflin University, Hofstra University, North Carolina A&T, and other schools. She has interviewed dozens of other “firsts” like herself. And she has watched as the inequality that marked her experience remains pervasive.“We’re not doing the real reckoning,” she said. “I grew up in an NAACP mentality. My father really thought, and I did too for many years, that integrating schools was what was going to work. Once these children got to go to school together and grew up together and learned that they were the same, we knew that America was really going to be on the path to change,” she said. “I’m here to tell you that my daddy is probably flipping in his grave. He didn’t put his beloved daughter into Rivers High School, and three years of angst, for it to work out the way it is. That wasn’t what we were fighting for.”The struggles in the 1950s and ’60s were not just to get Black people into white spaces, Brown said. “We can’t keep teaching that people integrated so Black folks could be with white people.” Her parents paid taxes, and they were not receiving an equal benefit; the resources flowed to the white schools. Even now, as a 2018 editorial in the Charleston Post and Courier put it, “all five of the district’s wealthiest schools are overwhelmingly white. All five of the poorest are overwhelmingly black. That’s a problem.”But Brown knows that the injustice doesn’t exist only in her city. The lessons she learned at her family’s dinner table still color her thoughts. “I’m sure there are lots of communities like this, where when we maybe stumbled into some desegregation and maybe even moved towards some more integration, people wanted to assume that that means the trouble is over,” she said. But the deeper issues were never addressed. “We hedged it; we ran away. A few people got some city jobs. We started electing a few more Black folks to public office. We made those little baby steps.” But the roots of systemic oppression were never addressed, and they are all interconnected.“Why are our Black schools the most underfunded and underserved? Why, when we talk about the need to close schools, why are the majority-Black schools or all-Black schools the ones that are closing? Why have Black businesses basically been just shut down from the peninsula?” Until there is that broader reckoning, she said, an acknowledgment that desegregation was just the beginning, “I will go to my grave knowing that time just hasn’t come yet.”
theatlantic.com
A Military First: A Supercarrier Is Named After An African American Sailor
USS Doris Miller will honor a Black Pearl Harbor hero and key figure in the rise of the civil rights movement. Miller, a sharecropper's son from Waco, Texas was just 22 years when he created history.
npr.org
The Undoing of a Tennessee Town
Editor’s Note: This is the second story in The Firsts, a five-part series about the children who desegregated America’s schools.The dress Jo Ann Allen Boyce had picked out for her first day of school, August 27, 1956, was beautiful: a black top and matching skirt with a pattern around the hem. Her grandmother had made it. In fact, her grandmother, a brilliant seamstress, had made Jo Ann an entire wardrobe of clothes for that first week.Jo Ann had given herself bangs and wore her long hair down. “For some reason I thought that was a really cute hairdo,” she told me recently. She got ready and headed out the door. At Green McAdoo Elementary School, just down the road from her home in Clinton, Tennessee, she met up with nine other Black classmates, their pastor, and family members to pray.For the two years before that late-summer Monday, her morning routine had been different. She typically rose with the sun, got dressed—in whatever felt right—and walked to catch a bus that would take her a little more than 20 miles east, first to Vine Junior High and then on to Austin High School, both in Knoxville. The bus ride usually took an hour. She felt relieved that morning because her commute was shorter, just a brief walk from her house. But her relief was temporary. It was the first day of the new reality in Clinton’s public schools—in all of Tennessee’s public schools, for that matter. That day, 12 students—Jo Ann, Bobby Cain, Anna Theresser Caswell, Minnie Ann Dickey, Gail Ann Epps, Ronald Gordon Hayden, William Latham, Alvah Jay McSwain, Maurice Soles, Robert Thacker, Regina Turner, and Alfred Williams—would be the first Black students in Tennessee to attend a desegregated state-supported high school.The prayer steeled the students, who had been preparing for that moment all summer. They had heard about how poorly integration had gone elsewhere—about the mobs, the slurs hurled at Black students, the violence. But this was Clinton. “Nothing bad had ever happened to us here,” Boyce said. She doesn’t remember having to step off the sidewalk when white people passed by, as was common in other southern towns. But segregation had still been the law. “We couldn’t sit at the counter or go to restaurants; we went to the back of the bus; we had our own bathrooms—our own water fountains clearly marked colored only.” Segregation in public schools was now illegal, though, thanks to the Supreme Court’s decision in Brown v. Board of Education, and she expected the white citizens of Clinton to at least respect the law.While the Black students had been preparing to enroll, the leadership at the high school had been preparing white students for integration. At the end of the spring semester, administrators gathered white students in the auditorium and explained how they were to behave when their Black classmates arrived. It was a crash course in civility, if not tolerance.As Boyce and her classmates departed from Green McAdoo and descended down the hill, they didn’t see much. “There weren’t too many people,” she said. The crowd consisted largely of white high-school students angling to get a better look at the Black students. She remembers three very young boys who held signs, however. we won’t go to school with negroes, the placards read.Still, aside from the signs, the first day went well. The Black students felt fairly safe. There was only one Black student per classroom, which meant that Boyce and her best friend, Gail, were not together, but the teachers were welcoming. “They were interested in teaching their classes,” she said. “They were not going to allow any outside agitation or whatever to enter the classroom. So if a loud noise came from outside, if someone yelled, they would get up and close the windows.”This congeniality extended to Boyce’s election as vice president of her homeroom class. She had run against a member of the football team. “It’s just that Jo Ann is so pretty and smart and has such a wonderful personality,” Carol Peters, a classmate and the president of the Future Homemakers of America Club, told The New York Times at the time. But the calm faded. The teachers, Jo Ann said, wanted to keep order, but as the days went by, they realized that there was only so much they could do.On September 7, 1956, Boyce (pictured in the black top and patterned skirt) and five other Black students walked in front of Clinton High School in Clinton, Tennessee, while a crowd of white onlookers gathered in front. They’d just desegegated the school on August 27, and though things seemed to go well at first, the calm quickly faded. (Gene Herrick / AP)Boyce’s family members were not strangers to the Jim Crow South. Her father, Herbert, was born in Luverne, Alabama, a timbering town in the southeastern part of the state. He left Alabama for Clinton—six hours from Luverne as the crow flies—when he was in his 20s and looking for work. Her mother, Alice Josephine, was from nearby Oliver Springs, Tennessee, where Jo Ann’s grandfather was a farmer and a lumberjack. On September 15, 1941—one year after a Black man was lynched in Luverne—Jo Ann was born in Clinton.She was not able to go to public pools or skating rinks growing up. But the small town did have a school that Black students could attend: Green McAdoo. One teacher taught first through fourth graders together as a group. Another teacher—typically the principal—taught fifth through eighth graders. The textbooks were old, hand-me-downs from the white elementary school down the road. They were “clearly marked ‘obsolete.’ They were stamped,” Boyce told me. What they lacked in resources, however, the teachers made up for in dedication. Her first teacher, she said, “really wanted us to learn. She was insistent that we learn how to write well and read well, that we understood math and science.” But as fourth grade turned into fifth, and the Black students became more “rowdy,” learning became more difficult. “But if you were interested in learning, you did okay. I did okay.”Education for Black students in the town ended in eighth grade, and if parents wanted their children to attend high school they had to pay for transportation to send them outside of Clinton. Even though Boyce had friends who had continued on at school in Knoxville, 20 miles away, she still felt anxious about leaving home. “I felt like a country bumpkin in a city school,” she laughed. She went to the all-Black Vine Junior High School for ninth grade, but she never quite felt comfortable. It began with the ride, which “was uncomfortable,” she said. “Hot during the summer. Very cold during the winter.” Then there were her new classmates.She had a hard time making friends. After all, one year is a short adjustment period after having been in the same school for eight years, and the hour-long drive each way meant that there was no room for extracurriculars at school. “I remember there were things I wanted to join that I would have had to be involved in after school and I couldn’t.” Both of her parents worked, and neither of them could pick her up.That transportation issue became too much for some Black families. With 12 children, including triplets who would soon start school, one family, the McSwains, had had enough. They would ultimately have to pay to send all of their children to school in Knoxville. They had already sent two of their children to Austin High School, and it had been expensive.Meanwhile, Clinton High School—the white school—was a short walk away. Two other Black families with several children, the Dickies and the Willises, joined the suit. Together, they sued the county board of education, arguing that it was the county’s responsibility to at least provide a separate and equal facility for the Black students. Having to go to Knoxville every day was an injustice, and it needed to be addressed. In 1950, the families took their case to court, and in 1952 it landed before the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Tennessee, where Judge Robert Taylor presided over the case.Taylor didn’t buy the families’ argument. Tennessee was trying its hardest to educate both Black and white students, he wrote in his lengthy opinion. He disregarded the outdated books, the overstuffed classes, the lack of instructors. “The riding of a bus by the student plaintiffs is a small contribution upon their part and that of their parents toward the success of this effort, too small to be regarded as a denial of constitutional rights,” he wrote in his decision on April 26, 1952.Then came Brown v. Board of Education. Separate was not equal, and schools needed to integrate with all deliberate speed. The U.S. Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit reversed Taylor’s decision and sent the case back to him. The country’s position on segregation had changed, and his jurisprudence would need to change as well. He ruled that the school needed to integrate. Clinton High School was required to enroll Black students who wanted to attend. And it needed to be done as early as 1956.Boyce and her classmates took placement exams, and every one of the 12 Black students who would attend Clinton High the following year placed in his or her appropriate class. The group included a pair of seniors; Boyce and her friend Gail, who were juniors; and a handful of sophomores and freshmen. They began preparing mentally. That fall, they would desegregate the public schools in Tennessee.Boyce, who became a pediatric nurse and worked in hospitals for 30 years, still talks to anyone who will listen about the experience of the Clinton 12. (Bethany Mollenkoff)The post-integration calm in Clinton was brief. If the first day was fairly calm, the subsequent days were a steady escalation of violence. Boyce first felt things changing when she opened her locker on the second day and saw that her books had been torn. The vandals had left a note inside the cabinet: “Go home Nigger.”On her first day, Boyce had worn her hair long, proud. But after that, white students would walk up behind her in the halls and yank it. “You would never know who it was,” she said. “They would make plenty of space by the time you had recovered and turned around.” On the third day of that first week, the ruckus outside the school grew. Inside, students would step on the back of the Black students’ heels. Gail remembers her heels being stepped on until they bled.John Kasper, a 26-year-old segregationist and Ku Klux Klan member, had also started organizing in town. The walk to school became treacherous for the Black students as the mob threw rocks, bottles, sticks, and rotten tomatoes and eggs at them. “It felt like you were being squeezed” walking into the building, Boyce said. “They weren’t that close, but it felt that way, like you were being smothered by these rows of people on the side of the road.” Students put tacks on the chairs. The slurs piled up: Pickaninny. Coon. Jungle bunny. Kasper had been calling white families to tell them they shouldn’t want their kids to go to school with Black people, because that would lead to interracial marriage. Leading up to Labor Day, Kasper incited nearly 3,000 people to protest integration in Clinton. The mob became unwieldy, and a group of local volunteers organized to keep the peace. “A volunteer citizens’ police unit dispersed a jeering, taunting crowd on Clinton’s courthouse lawn tonight with six tear gas bombs,” a front-page story of The New York Times read on September 2. For his role in agitating the group, Kasper was sentenced to a year in prison.Clockwise from top left: A mob of anti-integrationists gathered in Clinton after the desegregation of the schools. It was the second night that the mob gathered in the city; tear gas had to be fired in order to disperse the crowd, and many cars with Black people in them were attacked. (AP); Three students at Clinton High School picketed their school on August 27, 1956, as it became the first state-supported high school in Tennessee to desegregate. (AP); The National Guard in Clinton on Sept. 2, 1956. (H.B. Littell / AP)The governor sent in troops to keep the peace—not just for the security of the Black students, but for the town’s sake, as well. Following Kasper’s arrest, Asa Earl Carter, the head of the North Alabama Citizens’ Council, arrived in Clinton and “delivered a speech attacking integration,” the Times reported. “After the speech a mob began stopping cars on the highway, ripping out ornaments and smashing the windows.” Roughly 200 men organized to march toward the mayor’s home before the sheriff stopped them.For the Clinton 12, as the group would come to be known, the first week was a wake-up call. “Now we know,” Boyce remembered thinking. “Now we know they aren’t going to accept this the way we thought.” Some white students began withdrawing from school. The friendly smiles in the hallway stopped. White students moved their desks away from Black students. Still, Boyce never considered going back to Austin High School. “I didn’t like that bus ride, to tell you the truth,” she told me, laughing. “I liked the fact that I could wake up a little later and walk down the hill and go to school.”By November, after months of intimidation, several members of the Clinton 12 had stopped attending school. Someone had set off an explosion outside of Alvah McSwain’s home. Someone had fired bullets at Alfred Williams’s house. But in early December, thanks to coaxing by Paul Turner, a local white minister who vowed to protect them, the students decided to return to school. The minister had not been at the forefront of the fight for integration. He had taken to using his pulpit to preach peaceful integration, but he was not prone to marching. However, now he felt that it was his duty to do more. The riots had gotten out of hand, and he figured if a man of the cloth was helping the students get to school, he could stave off some of the animosity toward them. “He thought it was important that we return to the school,” Boyce, who was among those who briefly stopped attending, told me.On December 4, 1956, Turner escorted the 10 students who remained at Clinton—two had left in September and weren’t coming back—to school. On his way home, he was severely beaten by white supremacists, who bounced his head against the fender of a car and broke his nose. That Sunday, however, he was back in the pulpit, wearing a brown suit with a white carnation on his lapel, his nose still swollen and his eye black. His message: “There is no color line around the cross of Jesus.”A student tries to enter school in Clinton, Tennessee, amidst jeers from the students surrounding him. (Photo 12 / Universal Images Group / Getty)The school was closed for the next several days, and when it reopened on December 9, only nine Black students returned. Boyce was not among them. Her parents felt that enough was enough, and her mother decided to move the family to California. “I was surprised that she wanted us to get out of there and leave and go thousands of miles away, because right next door was her mother and her sister and her brothers,” Boyce said. But fear for her daughter—and her family’s safety—had pushed her over the edge. “It wasn’t going to get much better,” Boyce told me.The family moved to Los Angeles, where Boyce attended Susan Miller Dorsey High School. It was desegregated, she said, “but it wasn’t integrated.” Black students, white students, and Asian students all kept to their own groups, segregated patches in the integrated space.Back in Clinton, other students left over time. Bobby Cain graduated in 1957, and Gail graduated in 1958. But they are the only two of the original 12 that finished school at Clinton High. The school was bombed the next year, on October 5, 1958, and three explosions reduced the building to rubble. No one was injured, nor was anyone ever arrested. The FBI dropped its investigation when two of the primary suspects died. (Local citizens eventually rebuilt the school.)There are glancingly few Black students in Clinton’s public schools now, and Black students make up just 1 percent of the entire district.Boyce stayed in Los Angeles. She became a pediatric nurse, working in hospitals for 30 years, and sang jazz in a cabaret theater. She married and had children, and her children had children. And she still speaks with anyone who will listen about the experience of the Clinton 12, because it’s easy to forget how hard progress is to win, and the courage it takes along the way.
theatlantic.com
Pandemic Threatens Long-Term Job Security After Hospitality Industry Layoffs
Experts say the hotel industry may not return to pre-pandemic levels until 2023. Hospitality workers are bearing the brunt of this long downturn.
npr.org
Confidential information released after school district refused to pay hackers' ransom demand, report says
Hackers may have gained access to confidential information about current and former staff and students of the fifth largest school district in the United States, according to a statement posted on the district's website.
edition.cnn.com
Breonna Taylor neighbor wants to know why cop wasn't charged for shooting into his unit
"If that bullet went through my bed maybe I would have been dead too," Breonna Taylor's neighbor Stanley David said.        
usatoday.com
D.C.-area forecast: Showers today with heavy rain possible tonight into early Wednesday
Unsettled weather today and especially tonight before a cool front sweeps through to clear out the clouds and humidity.
washingtonpost.com
Trump Secretly Mocks His Christian Supporters
One day in 2015, Donald Trump beckoned Michael Cohen, his longtime confidant and personal attorney, into his office. Trump was brandishing a printout of an article about an Atlanta-based megachurch pastor trying to raise $60 million from his flock to buy a private jet. Trump knew the preacher personally—Creflo Dollar had been among a group of evangelical figures who visited him in 2011 while he was first exploring a presidential bid. During the meeting, Trump had reverently bowed his head in prayer while the pastors laid hands on him. Now he was gleefully reciting the impious details of Dollar’s quest for a Gulfstream G650.Trump seemed delighted by the “scam,” Cohen recalled to me, and eager to highlight that the pastor was “full of shit.”“They’re all hustlers,” Trump said.The president’s alliance with religious conservatives has long been premised on the contention that he takes them seriously, while Democrats hold them in disdain. In speeches and interviews, Trump routinely lavishes praise on conservative Christians, casting himself as their champion. “My administration will never stop fighting for Americans of faith,” he declared at a rally for evangelicals earlier this year. It’s a message his campaign will seek to amplify in the coming weeks as Republicans work to confirm Amy Coney Barrett—a devout, conservative Catholic—to the Supreme Court.But in private, many of Trump’s comments about religion are marked by cynicism and contempt, according to people who have worked for him. Former aides told me they’ve heard Trump ridicule conservative religious leaders, dismiss various faith groups with cartoonish stereotypes, and deride certain rites and doctrines held sacred by many of the Americans who constitute his base.[Read: The Christians who loved Trump’s church stunt]Reached for comment, a White House spokesman said that “people of faith know that President Trump is a champion for religious liberty and the sanctity of life, and he has taken strong actions to support them and protect their freedom to worship. The president is also well known for joking and his terrific sense of humor, which he shares with people of all faiths.”From the outset of his brief political career, Trump has viewed right-wing evangelical leaders as a kind of special-interest group to be schmoozed, conned, or bought off, former aides told me. Though he faced Republican primary opponents in 2016 with deeper religious roots—Ted Cruz, Mike Huckabee—Trump was confident that his wealth and celebrity would attract high-profile Christian surrogates to vouch for him.“His view was ‘I’ve been talking to these people for years; I’ve let them stay at my hotels—they’re gonna endorse me. I played the game,’” said a former campaign adviser to Trump, who, like others quoted in this story, spoke on the condition of anonymity to describe private conversations.It helped that Trump seemed to feel a kinship with prosperity preachers—often evincing a game-recognizes-game appreciation for their hustle. The former campaign adviser recalled showing his boss a YouTube video of the Israeli televangelist Benny Hinn performing “faith healings,” while Trump laughed at the spectacle and muttered, “Man, that’s some racket.” On another occasion, the adviser told me, Trump expressed awe at Joel Osteen’s media empire—particularly the viewership of his televised sermons.In Cohen’s recent memoir, Disloyal, he recounts Trump returning from his 2011 meeting with the pastors who laid hands on him and sneering, “Can you believe that bullshit?” But if Trump found their rituals ridiculous, he followed their moneymaking ventures closely. “He was completely familiar with the business dealings of the leadership in many prosperity-gospel churches,” the adviser told me.The conservative Christian elites Trump surrounds himself with have always been more clear-eyed about his lack of religiosity than they’ve publicly let on. In a September 2016 meeting with about a dozen influential figures on the religious right—including the talk-radio host Eric Metaxas, the Dallas megachurch pastor Robert Jeffress, and the theologian Wayne Grudem—the then-candidate was blunt about his relationship to Christianity. In a recording of the meeting obtained by The Atlantic, the candidate can be heard shrugging off his scriptural ignorance (“I don’t know the Bible as well as some of the other people”) and joking about his inexperience with prayer (“The first time I met [Mike Pence], he said, ‘Will you bow your head and pray?’ and I said, ‘Excuse me?’ I’m not used to it.”) At one point in the meeting, Trump interrupted a discussion about religious freedom to complain about Senator Ben Sasse of Nebraska and brag about the taunting nickname he’d devised for him. “I call him Little Ben Sasse,” Trump said. “I have to do it, I’m sorry. That’s when my religion always deserts me.”And yet, by the end of the meeting—much of which was spent discussing the urgency of preventing trans women from using women’s restrooms—the candidate had the group eating out of his hand. “I’m not voting for Trump to be the teacher of my third grader’s Sunday-school class. That’s not what he’s running for,” Jeffress said in the meeting, adding, “I believe it is imperative … that we do everything we can to turn people out.”The Faustian nature of the religious right’s bargain with Trump has not always been quite so apparent to rank-and-file believers. According to the Pew Research Center, white evangelicals are more than twice as likely as the average American to say that the president is a religious man. Some conservative pastors have described him as a “baby Christian,” and insist that he’s accepted Jesus Christ as his savior.To those who have known and worked with Trump closely, the notion that he might have a secret spiritual side is laughable. “I always assumed he was an atheist,” Barbara Res, a former executive at the Trump Organization, told me. “He’s not a religious guy,” A. J. Delgado, who worked on his 2016 campaign, told me. “Whenever I see a picture of him standing in a group of pastors, all of their hands on him, I see a thought bubble [with] the words ‘What suckers,’” Mary Trump, the president’s niece, told me.Greg Thornbury, a former president of the evangelical King’s College, who was courted by the campaign in 2016, told me that even those who acknowledge Trump’s lack of personal piety are convinced that he holds their faith in high esteem. “I don’t think for a moment that they would believe he’s cynical about them,” Thornbury said.[Read: God’s plan for Mike Pence]Trump’s public appeals to Jewish voters have been similarly discordant with his private comments. Last week, The Washington Post reported that after calls with Jewish lawmakers, the president has said that Jews “are only in it for themselves.” And while he is quick to tout his daughter Ivanka’s conversion to Judaism when he’s speaking to Jewish audiences, he is sometimes less effusive in private. Cohen told me that once, years ago, he was with Trump when his wife, Melania, informed him that their son was at a playdate with a Jewish girl from his school. “Great,” Trump said to Cohen, who is Jewish. “I’m going to lose another one of my kids to your people.”One religious group that the Trump campaign is keenly fixated on this year is Mormons. In 2016, members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints rejected the Republican ticket in unprecedented numbers. To win them over in 2020, the campaign has made Donald Trump Jr. its envoy, sending him to campaign in Utah and other Mormon-heavy states. The president’s son has cultivated relationships with high-profile conservatives in the faith. Earlier this year, he invoked Mormon pioneers in a call with reporters to describe his father’s “innovative spirit.” In fact, according to two senior Utah Republicans with knowledge of the situation, Don Jr. has been so savvy in courting Latter-day Saints—expressing interest in the Church’s history, reading from the Book of Mormon—that he’s left some influential Republicans in the state with the impression that he may want to convert. (A spokesman for Don Jr. did not respond to a request for comment.)I’ve been curious about the president’s opinion of Mormonism ever since I interviewed him in 2014 at Mar-a-Lago. During our conversation, Trump began to strenuously argue that Mitt Romney’s exotic faith had cost him the 2012 election. When I interrupted to inform him that I’m also a Mormon, he quickly changed tack—extolling my Church’s many virtues, and then switching subjects. (He remained committed to his theory about 2012: During his September 2016 meeting with evangelical leaders, Trump repeatedly asserted that “Christians” didn’t turn out for Romney “because of the Mormon thing.”) I’ve always wondered what Trump might have said if I hadn’t cut him off.When I shared this story with Cohen, he laughed. Trump, he said, frequently made fun of Romney’s faith in private—and was especially vicious when he learned about the religious undergarments worn by many Latter-day Saints. “Oh my god,” Cohen said. “How many times did he bring up Mitt Romney and the undergarments …”
theatlantic.com
The Most Important Question in Tonight’s Debate
Will President Trump commit to a peaceful transfer of power if he loses the election?
slate.com
After a child's accidental shooting death, Pennsylvania appeals court rules federal gun industry protection law unconstitutional
A Pennsylvania state appeals court has decided that the Protection of Lawful Commerce in Arms Act of 2005 is unconstitutional, court documents filed on Monday show.
edition.cnn.com
Iran Releases Video of Third-Generation Naval Ballistic Missile, Claims Extended Range
The new Zolfaqar-e Basir is the naval variant of the ballistic missile used to attack U.S. troops in Iraq in January.
newsweek.com
Trump Lashes out at CNN over Ivanka VP Claims: 'These People Are Sick'
Trump considered his eldest daughter as a potential running mate, according to a book by the president's former deputy campaign manager Rick Gates.
newsweek.com
Big Pharma Backs Joe Biden, But People Don't Think He'll Fix Drug Pricing
The pharmaceutical industry is donating large amounts to Biden's campaign but there are doubts he'll deliver on prescription drug prices.
newsweek.com
Neighbor describes witnessing possible hostage situation in Oregon
Multiple people died during a hostage situation that unfolded in Salem, Oregon, according to officials. CNN affiliate KPTV reports.
edition.cnn.com
Fire weary West looking for weather relief
The West is looking for wildfire relief but the rain is staying to the east of the Continental Divide. CNN Meteorologist Pedram Javaheri has the details.
edition.cnn.com
Even Lincoln and Eisenhower Would Disapprove of Trump's SCOTUS Rush | Opinion
When faced with Supreme Court vacancies shortly before their bids for reelection, the two Republican giants acted very differently.
newsweek.com
Emergency 911 dispatch outages reported at multiple police departments across the country
Police departments across the United States reported outages of their emergency 911 dispatch services Monday night.
1 h
edition.cnn.com
New Don Lewis Murder Theory Emerges As Carole Baskin Eliminated From 'DWTS'
Carole Baskin has become the latest contestant to leave "Dancing With the Stars," a day before a Dr. Oz special about the death of her husband Don Lewis.
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newsweek.com
New York City children get to go back to school
Temperature checks and even some rapid Covid-19 testing machines will join children with backpacks that seem way too large for them as trappings of the first day of school in New York City on Tuesday.
1 h
edition.cnn.com
New California law prompted by crash that killed Kobe Bryant
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foxnews.com
Lebanon's economy is going to pot — in a good way, it hopes
Lebanon has legalized marijuana farming — already a thriving illicit industry — in hopes of giving a boost to its foundering economy.
1 h
latimes.com
'Wouldn't give to a dog to chew': Tennis players complain about new balls
New balls please!
1 h
edition.cnn.com
The US ranks at the top of the world's coronavirus death toll of more than 1 million
The global Covid-19 death toll has crossed one million -- and the United States accounts for more than 20%.
2 h
edition.cnn.com
Covid spurs business to reinvent itself
The Indian start-up Cure.fit began in 2016 as a fitness app like many others, offering gym memberships and exercise classes to young adults in Bangalore.
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edition.cnn.com
Indian health platform wants to nourish mind, body and soul
Cure.fit has transformed itself from an exercise startup to an all-encompassing health platform.
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edition.cnn.com
Patrick Mahomes Sets New NFL Record as Chiefs Beat Ravens on Monday Night Football
The reigning Super Bowl MVP became the fastest player in NFL history to reach 10,000 passing yards, reaching the milestone in just 34 regular season games.
2 h
newsweek.com
Northern California wildfire: 3 dead, thousands flee
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foxnews.com
Resident describes giant chunks of ash falling across the Bay Area
Residents in northern California are dealing with more than just smoke from deadly wildfires in the area, with pictures showing shockingly large chunks of ash that have fallen.
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edition.cnn.com
Kindergarten teacher sentenced to death for poisoning 25 students
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edition.cnn.com
Governor declares state of emergency as Zogg and Glass wildfires race through California
California Gov. Gavin Newsom declared a state of emergency Monday night after wildfires tore through Napa, Sonoma and Shasta counties, killing at least three people and forcing tens of thousands of people to evacuate.
2 h
edition.cnn.com
Trump tax returns are not just good for gossip. Here are 3 reasons voters should care.
Trump didn't want us to know what was in his returns. Was he honest with the IRS? Did hiding information make him a security risk? Is he fit to lead?       
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usatoday.com
‘This could have been a Breonna Taylor:’ Police stormed a Black student’s dorm after a false report
Christin Evans’ family called for the university to take action against the students who made the false report, which they believe was racially motivated.
2 h
washingtonpost.com
‘This is a nightmare’: New Yorkers get absentee ballots with the wrong return envelope
Scores of New Yorkers reported on Monday that they’d received mixed-up return envelopes, which would invalidate their votes if they tried to mail them in.
2 h
washingtonpost.com
Dentists are seeing more cracked teeth. Pandemic stress is to blame
During the pandemic, dentists and oral surgeons have been seeing more cracked teeth. They've figured out what's going on.
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edition.cnn.com
Dentists are seeing more cracked teeth. Pandemic stress is to blame
Shingles, maskne, migraines and quarantine fatigue: The stress of the pandemic has manifested in a variety of physical ailments. The latest evidence of this is a rise in cracked teeth.
2 h
edition.cnn.com
Amazon will now let you pay with your palm in its stores
Amazon wants shoppers at its stores — and those of other retailers — to pay by palm with Amazon One. | Amazon And, it hopes, other retailers’ stores in the future. Amazon accounts for nearly 40 percent of e-commerce sales in the US today, and it takes a cut of even more online shopping by selling payments services and other technologies to external shopping sites. Now, the online retail giant is making a play to grab a piece of brick-and-mortar shopping, too — and it wants customers to literally lend a hand to do it. Amazon on Tuesday is unveiling a new biometric technology called Amazon One that allows shoppers to pay at stores by placing their palm over a scanning device when they walk in the door or when they check out. The first time they register to use this tech, a customer will scan their palm and insert their payment card at a terminal; after that, they can simply pay with their hand. The hand-scanning tech isn’t just for Amazon’s own stores — the company hopes to sell it to other retailers, including competitors, too. The technology will be available at the entrance of two of the company’s Amazon Go cashierless convenience stores in Seattle starting Tuesday, and will roll out to the rest of the chain’s 20-plus stores in the future, Amazon Vice President Dilip Kumar told Recode in an interview Monday. Recode reported in December that Amazon had filed a patent application for such a hand-payment technology. The technology could also show up in Whole Foods stores, with Amazon hinting in a press release that it will introduce palm payments in the coming months inside its other stores beyond just Amazon Go locations. Kumar wouldn’t comment on a potential Whole Foods implementation, though the New York Post reported a year ago that such a plan was in the works. But the Amazon executive did make it clear that the company expects to sell the technology to other retailers, like it began doing earlier this year with its “Just Walk Out” technology, which is the cocktail of cameras, sensors, and computer vision software that powers Amazon Go stores. Kumar said the Amazon One pitch to other retailers is straightforward: Reduce friction for your customers at checkout, shortening lines and increasing how many shoppers you can serve along the way. Amazon’s plan to license these two homegrown technologies to other retailers, whether competitor or not, is the real story: Amazon isn’t satisfied with e-commerce dominance, and wants to earn a cut of more transactions in the physical retail world, too, where 80-something percent of commerce still takes place in the US. So it’s building out a futuristic suite of services to court other retailers, while showcasing the technology in its own stores as case studies. One obvious question is whether retailers, many of which consider Amazon a competitor of one sort or another, will want to do business with the tech giant. Kumar pointed to Amazon Web Services, the company’s $40 billion division that leases computing power, data storage, and myriad software capabilities to internet companies big and small, as an example of an Amazon offering that attracts competitors. Amazon will collect data on where Amazon One customers shop when they use the payment option, but it will not know what shoppers purchase or how much they spend inside third-party retail stores. Either way, an Amazon spokesperson said the company has “no plans to use transaction information from third party locations for Amazon advertising or other purposes,” and shoppers can sign up for the service without linking it to an Amazon customer account if they choose. Another obvious question is whether enough people will be willing to hand over scans of their hands to Amazon in order to save a bit of time at checkout. It’s true that a no-touch payment method might be more attractive today, during the pandemic, than even a year ago. But new payment methods often face steep adoption challenges, and that’s even when biometrics aren’t involved. Biometric tracking poses a host of privacy concerns, including the potential of targeted hacking or a mass data breach. Kumar, the Amazon executive, said the more locations where Amazon can introduce the technology, the more valuable customers will find it and be willing to give it a try. That’s why the company plans to pitch other use cases beyond payments, and Kumar said Amazon is discussing with potential partners the idea of linking palm scans with building IDs to replace office ID cards, or to event tickets for stadiums or arenas — two settings that don’t sound especially appealing during the global health crisis, but may once again in the future when gathering in a crowd won’t pose serious health risks. The executive added that Amazon chose palm scans over other biometric options for a few reasons. One, he said, is that it’s not easy for a bad actor to identify a person by simply viewing an image of their hand, if that material ever leaked. Another is the uniqueness of each person’s hand. “Even identical twins have many differences in their palm structure,” he said. A spokesperson added that the images are encrypted when scanned, and then “sent to a highly secure area we custom-built in the cloud for analysis and storage.” To some, the upside still won’t be worth it. “How lazy are people that they will hand over their handprints so they don’t have to take out their wallet?” my wife asked when I mentioned the new technology to her in an embargoed dinner-table discussion. But Apple’s Touch ID fingerprint-scanning tech and its Face ID face-scanning tech seemed a little crazy at first too — until they weren’t. And if enough customers trust Amazon with the tradeoff, physical retailers will face an interesting dilemma: chase the future by aligning with the most powerful tech company in retail, or stick to the present and hope your customers don't stray as a result.
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vox.com
Senators treat female Supreme Court nominees differently. Here’s the evidence.
Our research looks at every question and every answer in these confirmation hearings since 1939.
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washingtonpost.com
McDonald's fan with HMBRGLR license plate spotted in restaurant's drive-thru, much to the internet's delight
For someone who burgles hams, she sure isn’t being discreet about it.
2 h
foxnews.com