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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| In 1937, at 85, he told his story to the WPA: born enslaved, sold at one month old, brought to Texas. 'You all is free as I is,' his master said. His words survived. Between 1936 and 1938, the Works Progress Administration hired writers to do something unprecedented: interview formerly enslaved people and record their stories. Over 2,300 people—most in their 80s and 90s, the last generation to remember slavery firsthand—sat down and shared their memories. Their words were preserved exactly as spoken, creating one of history's most important collections of primary source testimony. One of those voices belonged to Preely Coleman. In 1937, in Tyler, Texas, 85-year-old Preely sat down with a WPA interviewer and began talking. And as he said himself: "I never gits tired of talking." What follows is Preely's story, in his own words—preserved in the Library of Congress, a direct link to a man born into slavery in 1852. Preely's Story (in his own words): "I'm Preely Coleman and I never gits tired of talking. Yes, ma'am, it am Juneteenth, but I'm home, 'cause I'm too old now to go on them celebrations. "Where was I born? I knows that 'zactly, 'cause my mammy tells me that a thousand times. I was born down on the old Souba place, in South Carolina, 'bout ten mile from Newberry. My mammy belonged to the Souba family, but its a fact one of the Souba boys was my pappy and so the Soubas sells my mammy to Bob and Dan Lewis and they brung us to Texas 'long with a big bunch of other slaves. "Mammy tells me it was a full month 'fore they gits to Alto, their new home." Think about what Preely is describing: He was one month old when he was sold. His mother was sold because she'd been raped by one of the Souba men—his father—and the family wanted to hide the evidence. A one-month-old baby, ripped from the place of his birth, forced on a month-long journey to Texas. His mother carrying him, walking hundreds of miles, enslaved. Preely continues: "When I was a chile I has a purty good time, 'cause there was plenty chillen on the plantation. We had the big races. Durin' the war the sojers stops by on the way to Mansfield, in Louisiana, to git somethin' to eat and stay all night, and then's when we had the races. "There was a mulberry tree we'd run to and we'd line up and the sojers would say, 'Now the first one to slap that tree gits a quarter,' and I nearly allus gits there first. I made plenty quarters slappin' that old mulberry tree! "So the chillen gits into their heads to fix me, 'cause I wins all the quarters. They throws a rope over my head and started draggin down the road, and down the hill, and I was nigh 'bout choked to death. My only friend was Billy and he was a-fightin', tryin' to git me loose. "They was goin' to throw me in the big spring at the foot of that hill, but we meets Capt. Berryman, a white man, and he took his knife and cut the rope from my neck and took me by the heels and soused me up and down in the spring till I come to. They never tries to kill me any more." Preely is describing being nearly lynched by other enslaved children. The casual violence of slavery—where even children absorbed the cruelty of the system and turned it on each other. He remembers it as a child's memory: the races, the quarters, the mulberry tree. And then sudden violence—a rope around his neck, being dragged, nearly killed, saved by chance encounter. "They never tries to kill me any more," he says—as if this was normal, expected, something that just happened. "My mammy done married John Selman on the way to Texas, no cere'mony, you knows, but with her massa's consent. Now our masters, the Lewises, they loses their place and then the Selman's buy me and mammy. They pays $1,500 for my mammy and I was throwed in." Preely's mother "married"—no ceremony, no legal recognition, just permission from the enslaver. Then sold again. $1,500 for his mother. Preely was "thrown in"—an afterthought, a child included in the purchase price. Human beings bought and sold like livestock. "Massa Selman has five cabins in he backyard and they's built like half circle. I grows big 'nough to hoe and den to plow. We has to be ready for the field by daylight and the conk was blowed, and massa call out, 'All hands ready for the field.' "At 11:30 he blows the conk, what am the mussel shell, you knows, 'gain and we eats dinner, and at 12:30 we has to be back at work. But massa wouldn't 'low no kind of work on Sunday. "Massa Tom made us wear the shoes, 'cause they's so many snags and stumps our feets gits sore, and they was red russet shoes. I'll never forgit 'em, they was so stiff at first we could hardly stand 'em. "But Massa Tom was a good man, though he did love the dram. He kep' the bottle in the center of the dining table all the time and every meal he'd have the toddy. Us slaves et out under the trees in summer and in the kitchen in winter and most gen'ally we has bread in pot liquor or milk, but sometimes honey." Preely describes daily life: the conch shell blown to signal work times, the rigid schedule, the shoes that hurt his feet, the food they ate. And notice: "Massa Tom was a good man." Because he gave them Sundays off. Because he made them wear shoes. Because sometimes they got honey. This is what "good" meant under slavery—basic minimal humanity was considered kindness. "I well 'members when freedom come. We was in the field and massa comes up and say, 'You all is free as I is.' "There was shoutin' and singin' and 'fore night us was all 'way to freedom." That's it. That's how Preely remembers emancipation. Working in the field. The master walking up. Seven words: "You all is free as I is." Shouting. Singing. And by nightfall, they were gone. Seventy-two years later, Preely still remembered that moment exactly. Why Preely Coleman's testimony matters: This isn't a history book written by scholars decades later. This isn't a movie dramatization. This isn't someone's interpretation of what slavery was like. This is Preely Coleman's actual voice. Recorded. Preserved. His words. His memories. His life. He was born in 1852. He lived through slavery, the Civil War, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the early 20th century. He saw the world transform around him. And in 1937, at 85 years old, he sat down and said: "I never gits tired of talking." He wanted his story told. He wanted people to know. He wanted his voice to survive. The WPA Slave Narratives are invaluable because they're direct testimony. Over 2,300 formerly enslaved people spoke. Their words were recorded. Their experiences preserved. Without these interviews, we'd only have the perspectives of enslavers, the writings of abolitionists, the documents of lawmakers. We wouldn't have Preely Coleman saying: "I was throwed in." We wouldn't have his memory of soldiers and the mulberry tree. We wouldn't have his voice saying: "You all is free as I is." Preely Coleman died sometime after 1937. His interview is housed in the Library of Congress, part of the American Memory collection. Anyone can read it. Anyone can hear his voice across nearly 90 years of history. Remember Preely Coleman. Born enslaved in South Carolina in 1852. Sold at one month old. Brought to Texas in a month-long forced march. Nearly killed as a child. Sold again with his mother for $1,500. Worked the fields from childhood. Freed at age 13 in 1865. Lived 72 more years as a free man. And at 85, sat down and told his story so we would know. "I never gits tired of talking." His voice survived. Listen to it. |
| The greatest love story Tolkien ever wrote wasn't in The Lord of the Rings—it's carved on two gravestones in Oxford, 55 years in the making. Long before hobbits journeyed to Mount Doom, before elves sang in Rivendell, before the One Ring corrupted kings and wizards—J.R.R. Tolkien wrote his truest romance. And it wasn't fiction. The Meeting Birmingham, 1908. A boarding house on Duchess Road. A 16-year-old orphan named Ronald Tolkien met a 19-year-old orphan named Edith Bratt. They lived on different floors, but they shared something deeper than proximity: they were both utterly alone in the world. Ronald's mother had died when he was twelve, leaving him in the care of Father Francis Morgan, a Catholic priest who became his guardian. Edith's parents were also gone—she'd been orphaned young and had no family to speak of. They were both musical. Both readers. Both searching for something that felt like home. They found it in each other. Their courtship was achingly innocent. Long conversations over tea in local cafés. Walks through the Birmingham countryside. And one particular game that became legendary: they would sit in teashops and try to toss sugar cubes into each other's hats from across the table, laughing when they missed, celebrating wildly when they succeeded. It was simple. It was joyful. It was young love in its purest form. But not everyone approved. The Separation Father Francis Morgan watched the relationship with growing alarm. Edith was Protestant—a serious problem for a devout Catholic guardian. She was three years older than Ronald—socially questionable. And worst of all, she was a distraction from his studies at King Edward's School and his hopes of attending Oxford. In 1909, Father Morgan delivered an ultimatum: Tolkien was forbidden from seeing, writing to, or even speaking about Edith until he turned 21. Complete silence. For three years. Ronald obeyed—barely. It nearly destroyed him. He threw himself into his studies, won a scholarship to Oxford, immersed himself in ancient languages and epic poetry. But Edith was never far from his thoughts. Meanwhile, Edith—believing herself forgotten, convinced Ronald had moved on—tried to rebuild her life. She moved to Cheltenham. She played piano. She tried to forget. And eventually, she accepted a marriage proposal from another man. The Letter January 3, 1913. Tolkien's 21st birthday. The moment the calendar turned and he was legally free from Father Morgan's authority, Tolkien sat down and wrote a letter. He poured out three years of silence. He told Edith he had never forgotten her. That he loved her still. That he always would. That she was his first thought in the morning and his last before sleep. He mailed it immediately. Her reply shattered him: I am engaged to someone else. But when they met in person days later—at the train station in Cheltenham—the truth became undeniable. Their love had survived the silence. Every suppressed feeling, every banned letter, every forbidden thought came rushing back in a single conversation. What they'd felt at 16 and 19 hadn't faded—it had only grown stronger in absence. Edith broke off her engagement to George Field. She knew what it would cost her—security, social standing, the approval of the family that had taken her in. She didn't care. Then she made an even bigger sacrifice: she converted to Catholicism, knowing it would cost her friendships and support in her Protestant community. On March 22, 1916, as World War I raged across Europe and millions died in trenches, Ronald Tolkien and Edith Bratt were married in a small Catholic church in Warwick. She wore a simple dress. He wore his army uniform. Three months later, he shipped out to France. The War June 1916. Lieutenant Tolkien arrived at the Western Front just as the Battle of the Somme began—one of the bloodiest battles in human history. He served as a signals officer, crawling through mud and shell craters, watching friends die, breathing poison gas, living in constant terror. He survived the Somme. Barely. In October 1916, he contracted trench fever—a debilitating illness spread by lice in the trenches. He was sent home to England, weak and haunted, while his closest friends died without him. Through it all, Edith was his anchor. She wrote him letters. She waited. She prayed. And when he came home broken, she helped him heal. The Dance There was a moment Tolkien never forgot. In 1917—they'd been married a year, and he was recovering from trench fever—they walked together in a woodland near Roos in Yorkshire. Edith moved through the trees into a clearing filled with flowering hemlocks, graceful and joyful, dancing just for him. The sunlight filtered through the leaves. She laughed. And in that instant, she became immortal in his imagination. Years later—decades later—he would write the tale of Beren and Lúthien: a mortal man who falls in love with an immortal elven maiden whose beauty and grace transcend worlds. Lúthien dances for Beren in a forest glade, and he is so captivated he cannot speak. It was their story. It had always been their story. Tolkien himself would later write: "I never called Edith 'Lúthien'—but she was the source of the story that in time became the chief of the tales of The Silmarillion." The Life For 55 years, Edith was his partner, his inspiration, his first reader, his greatest supporter. They had four children: John, Michael, Christopher, and Priscilla. They moved to Oxford, where Tolkien became a professor of Anglo-Saxon. They lived modestly, quietly, in a series of small homes in the suburbs. Edith typed his manuscripts on an old typewriter. She listened to his invented languages. She was the first person to hear about hobbits, about Gandalf, about the One Ring. When he'd return from the university, he'd read her what he'd written that day. When The Hobbit was published in 1937, she celebrated with him. When The Lord of the Rings became a global phenomenon in the 1960s, she watched him become famous—but their relationship remained what it had always been: two orphans who'd found home in each other. They weren't perfect. Marriage never is. They had disagreements, struggles, ordinary frustrations. But they were devoted. And when Tolkien wrote about love in his mythology—about Beren giving up everything for Lúthien, about Lúthien choosing mortality to be with Beren, about love that transcends death itself—he was writing about a girl who once tossed sugar cubes across a teashop table and danced for him in a forest. The Ending November 29, 1971. Edith Tolkien died at age 82. Tolkien was devastated. He'd lost his Lúthien. He had a single word engraved on her tombstone: "Lúthien"—the elven heroine who gave up immortality for love. For two years, he lived alone. He continued writing, gave interviews, received honorary degrees. But friends said the light had gone out. On September 2, 1973, J.R.R. Tolkien died at age 81. He was buried beside her in Wolvercote Cemetery, Oxford. And beneath his name, one word was added: "Beren." Even in death, they are together—the mortal man and his immortal love, reunited at last. What It Means The greatest fantasy epic ever written—the story that defined modern fantasy, that inspired generations of writers, that created entire worlds out of language and imagination—was born from something achingly real. A 16-year-old orphan boy and a 19-year-old orphan girl tossing sugar cubes across a table. Laughing when they missed. Celebrating when they succeeded. Falling in love. Being torn apart by rules and religion and war. Finding their way back to each other. And refusing to let go for 55 years. Tolkien created Middle-earth—a world of magic, dragons, battles between good and evil, quests that span continents. But the most powerful magic he ever wrote about was the kind that happened in a Birmingham teashop in 1908. Two lonely people finding home in each other's eyes. And never, ever forgetting. Their gravestones stand side by side in Oxford: Edith Mary Tolkien Lúthien 1889-1971 John Ronald Reuel Tolkien Beren 1892-1973 The greatest love story he ever wrote. Not in Middle-earth. But in a boarding house. In a teashop. In a forest glade. In 55 years of letters, laughter, children, words, and devotion. In two names carved in stone—together forever, just as they'd always wanted to be. That's not fantasy. That's the truest kind of magic there is. |
| April 6, 1862. Shiloh, Tennessee. Major General Lew Wallace—at 34, the youngest major general in the Union Army—received urgent orders: bring your division to the battlefield immediately. General Grant's army was under surprise attack. Confederate forces had driven Union troops back in brutal fighting. Reinforcements were desperately needed. Wallace marched his men toward where he believed the Union lines were positioned—based on where they'd been before the battle started. But in the chaos and confusion, no one had told Wallace that the entire Union army had been pushed back nearly two miles. The road he chose led away from the fighting, not toward it. By the time Wallace realized his mistake, countermarched his 7,500 men, and took a different road, the first day's fighting was over. Grant was furious. Wallace's division—fresh, well-supplied, desperately needed—had never reached the battlefield. Someone had to be blamed for the near-disaster. That someone was Lew Wallace. The written order that might have proven whether Wallace or Grant was right was lost in the battle's chaos. Without that evidence, the blame stuck to Wallace like tar. His military career—so promising just weeks earlier—was effectively over. The Rise Just two months before Shiloh, Lew Wallace had been a hero. At Fort Donelson in February 1862, his aggressive initiative and bold leadership helped secure a crucial Union victory—capturing an entire Confederate army and opening the way into the South. Grant praised him. The newspapers celebrated him. At age 34, he was promoted to major general—the youngest in the entire Federal army. His future seemed limitless. Then came Shiloh, and everything changed. The Fall After Shiloh, Wallace was quietly sidelined. No formal charges. No court-martial. Just... silence. Assignments to minor posts far from major action. The controversy followed him everywhere. Newspapers that had praised him now questioned his competence. Fellow officers whispered about "Wallace's march"—the division that never arrived. Wallace knew what people said: that his confusion and poor judgment had nearly cost Grant the battle, nearly destroyed an army, nearly lost the war's western theater. And he had no way to prove them wrong. The written order—the evidence that could vindicate him—was gone. The Redemption Attempt Wallace wasn't finished. In July 1864, he got a chance to prove himself: commanding a small, outnumbered force at Monocacy, Maryland, against Confederate General Jubal Early's army heading for Washington D.C. Wallace knew he'd likely lose the battle. His 5,800 men faced Early's 15,000 veterans. But if he could delay Early—even for a day—reinforcements might reach Washington in time to save the capital. Wallace fought a desperate delaying action. His men were driven from the field after fierce fighting, but they'd bought crucial time. Early reached the outskirts of Washington too late—Union reinforcements had arrived. The capital was saved. Grant later acknowledged that Wallace's sacrifice at Monocacy likely saved Washington. But it wasn't enough to erase Shiloh. The cloud remained. After the War Wallace returned to Indiana after the war, trying to rebuild his life. He resumed his law practice. He ran for Congress—twice—and lost both times. He briefly served as a general in the Mexican army, supporting Benito Juárez against Emperor Maximilian. His loyal service to the Republican Party eventually earned him an appointment as Territorial Governor of New Mexico (1878-1881). It was there, in the territorial governor's palace in Santa Fe, that Wallace began writing a novel. The Book That Changed Everything Wallace had started Ben-Hur years earlier, but completed it during his time in New Mexico. The book told the story of Judah Ben-Hur, a Jewish prince betrayed and enslaved by Romans, who witnesses the life and crucifixion of Jesus Christ. It was an epic tale of betrayal, revenge, redemption—themes Wallace knew intimately. Published in November 1880, just before Wallace left for his next appointment (U.S. Minister to the Ottoman Empire), the book became an unprecedented phenomenon. Ben-Hur sold millions of copies—becoming the best-selling American novel of the entire 19th century, surpassed only by Uncle Tom's Cabin. It was translated into dozens of languages. Adapted for stage (including a famous production with live horses in the chariot race scene). Eventually adapted for film multiple times. Lew Wallace—the disgraced general, the failed politician, the man haunted by Shiloh—became one of the most famous and wealthy authors in America. The Wound That Never Healed The success of Ben-Hur brought Wallace wealth, fame, and international recognition. But it never fully erased Shiloh. Wallace spent his later years pursuing various interests—writing, architecture, inventing—but also working tirelessly to clear his name from the Shiloh accusations. He wrote his memoirs. He corresponded with historians. He argued his case to anyone who'd listen. The controversy had defined his life more than any of his achievements. The Old Soldier When the Spanish-American War broke out in 1898, 71-year-old Lew Wallace offered to raise a volunteer regiment. The government declined—he was too old. So Wallace tried to enlist as a private soldier. That too was refused. The warrior who'd been a major general at 34, who'd saved Washington at Monocacy, who'd never stopped trying to prove his worth, wanted one more chance to serve. February 15, 1905 Lew Wallace died at his home in Crawfordsville, Indiana, at age 77. By then, Ben-Hur had sold millions of copies worldwide. He'd served as governor, diplomat, and celebrated author. He'd lived a remarkable, accomplished life. But those who knew him said the Shiloh controversy never fully left him. He died still trying to clear his name from accusations made 43 years earlier—accusations based on a lost written order that might have proven his innocence. The Legacy Lew Wallace's life teaches us about the weight of blame, the persistence of controversy, and the redemptive power of creative work. He was a talented general whose career was destroyed by circumstances partly beyond his control. He became one of America's most successful authors—creating a book that outlived the military controversy, that touched millions of lives, that's still read and adapted today. But he never fully escaped Shiloh. Sometimes our greatest achievements can't erase our most painful failures. We carry both—the triumphs and the wounds—until the end. Lewis "Lew" Wallace: 1827-1905 The youngest Union major general. The scapegoat of Shiloh. The savior of Washington. The author of Ben-Hur. The man who spent his life trying to clear his name—and created something far greater in the process. Born April 10, 1827—198 years ago today. He never got the vindication he sought. But he gave the world a story that outlasted the controversy. Sometimes that has to be enough. |
| A Few husband and WIFE Jokes (Pls note the usage of Capitals....) For the LADIES first (as always....) 1) " A Woman came home, screeching her car into the driveway, and ran into the house. She slammed the door and shouted excitedly, "Honey, pack your bags. I won the lottery!" The husband said, "Oh my God ! What should I pack, beach stuff or mountain stuff?" "Doesn't matter," she said, "JUST GET OUT.........." 2) " A Woman and her husband interrupted their vacation to go to the dentist. The Women said - “I want a tooth pulled, and I DON'T want any vaccine because I’m in a big hurry. Just EXTRACT the tooth As Quickly as possible, and we’ll be on our way.” The Dentist was quite impressed. “You’re certainly a Courageous woman,” he said. “Which tooth is it?” The Woman turned to her husband and said, “Show him YOUR tooth, dear......" 3) " Husband: I don't know why you wear a bra; you've got nothing to put in it. Wife: " Well dear - You wear Briefs, DON'T YOU ?....." Now for the Gentlemen : 1) " A couple came upon a wishing well. The husband leaned over, made a wish and threw in a penny. The wife made a wish too, but she leaned over too much, fell into the well, and drowned. The husband was stunned for a moment but then smiled, "It really WORKS !....." 2) " A little boy asked his father, "Daddy, how much does it cost to get married?" And the father replied, "I Don't know, son, I'm STILL PAYING FOR IT.....". Pls excuse me if you see me with a SORE EYE and A BROKEN JAW.......... |
| He became a billionaire, then quietly gave away $8 billion. He died in a rented apartment with a $15 watch. Warren Buffett called him "my hero." The Philosophy Charles "Chuck" Feeney believed in "Giving While Living"—the idea of using wealth, time, and energy to make a difference while still alive, not after you're gone. He co-founded Duty Free Shoppers in 1960, which became a global empire and made him a billionaire. But instead of keeping it all, Chuck quietly donated to build schools, universities, and children's hospitals, giving countless people a chance at a better future. The Secret For years, almost no one knew. Chuck gave anonymously. He didn't want recognition. He didn't want buildings named after him. He just wanted to help. While other billionaires built yachts and mansions, Chuck lived modestly—flying economy class, wearing a $15 Casio watch, living in rented apartments. He didn't see wealth as something to accumulate. He saw it as a tool—and he wanted to use that tool while he could see the impact. 1982 Chuck founded The Atlantic Philanthropies, which would become one of the largest philanthropic foundations in history. Over the next four decades, he gave away more than $8 billion to: • Universities and education programs • Children's hospitals and healthcare facilities • Scientific research • Human rights organizations • Aging and disability services He gave so much that by 2020, The Atlantic Philanthropies closed—because Chuck had given away every dollar. The Hero Even the world's richest admired him. Warren Buffett once said: "Chuck has set an example not only for people of my age but also younger generations. Feeney is my hero… He should be everybody's hero." Chuck inspired Buffett and Bill Gates to create the Giving Pledge—encouraging billionaires to give away the majority of their wealth during their lifetimes. His philosophy was simple: "I had one idea that never changed in my mind—that you should use your wealth to help people." October 9, 2023 Chuck Feeney passed away at age 92. At the end of his life, he lived in a modest rented apartment in San Francisco. He owned a $15 Casio watch. He had given away his entire fortune—over $8 billion—and kept almost nothing for himself. But what he left behind was immeasurable: • Countless students educated in buildings he funded • Patients healed in hospitals he built • Research breakthroughs funded by his donations • Communities transformed by his generosity The Legacy Chuck Feeney proved something radical: that you don't need to die to create a legacy. That the greatest joy isn't in keeping wealth—it's in seeing what it can do while you're alive. That a $15 watch can be worn by someone who changed millions of lives. That success isn't measured by your net worth at death—it's measured by the difference you made in life. The Lesson Most billionaires leave their wealth to foundations after they die, trusting others to distribute it. Chuck gave it away himself—visiting the schools he funded, meeting the researchers he supported, seeing the impact with his own eyes. He didn't want a statue or a building with his name. He wanted to see lives change. And he did. The Truth Charles "Chuck" Feeney became a billionaire and gave away $8 billion. He lived modestly, gave secretly, and died with almost nothing—except the knowledge that he'd transformed millions of lives. Warren Buffett called him "my hero." Bill Gates cited him as inspiration. But Chuck didn't do it for recognition. He did it because he believed that "Giving While Living" was the only way wealth made sense. He showed the world that true success is measured not by what you keep, but by what you give. And that the richest life isn't the one with the most possessions—it's the one that makes the most difference. Chuck Feeney: 1931-2023 Billionaire. Philanthropist. Hero. |
| ICE just tried to deport this woman, but there was just one problem — she was Native American. You read that right: Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) — the agency supposedly tasked with deporting undocumented immigrants — just tried to deport an Indigenous woman whose ancestors have been here for thousands of years. Leticia Jacobo, a 24-year-old member of Arizona’s Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, was born in Phoenix — but that didn’t stop ICE from trying to ship her “back” to a country she doesn’t even belong to. Here’s how this jaw-dropping injustice unfolded: Jacobo was sitting in a Polk County, Iowa jail after being booked for allegedly driving with a suspended license — nothing violent, nothing serious. Her mother, Ericka Burns, was preparing to pick her up and bring her home when jail staff dropped a bombshell: “She’s not being released. ICE is coming to deport her.” Her mom was stunned. “How can you deport her?” she asked. “She’s Native American!” But the jail staff shrugged it off. They said they were “just holding her” for ICE. No one — not a single person — could explain how or why this was happening. Jacobo’s family went into overdrive — calling, emailing, begging officials to stop what was about to become one of the most shameful bureaucratic blunders in modern history. They reached out to tribal leaders, shared pleas on Facebook, and even showed up at the jail with her birth certificate to prove she’s an American citizen. And still, officials hesitated. Hours ticked by while ICE prepared to take her. Finally, after an agonizing all-night standoff, she was released around 4:30 a.m. — barely. And what’s ICE’s excuse? A “clerical error.” Lt. Mark Chance from the Polk County Sheriff’s Office casually dismissed it as “human error.” Just a little mix-up, they said. The detainer was meant for someone else, and they just happened to attach it to the file of a Native American woman born on U.S. soil. “We’ll have some meetings about it,” Chance said. “This is silly.” Silly? This wasn’t “silly.” This was an attempted deportation of a woman whose people are the original inhabitants of this land, by a government agency that has no idea whose land it’s even on. Let that sink in: the United States government almost deported an Indigenous woman from her own country. This is what happens when an agency like ICE is given unchecked power — where “clerical errors” can destroy lives, and where systemic racism and dehumanization are written into the paperwork. If her family hadn’t fought like hell, Leticia Jacobo could have been vanished into ICE custody — another name lost in a broken, brutal system. It’s time to abolish this corrupt and incompetent agency that can’t even tell the difference between an immigrant and an Indigenous citizen. Because if ICE can come for Native Americans, they can come for anyone. |
| At 28, he commanded the artillery for Pickett's Charge. His general made him decide whether 12,000 men should attack. He gave the order. Most of them died. On July 3, 1863—the third day of the Battle of Gettysburg—Colonel Edward Porter Alexander commanded the massed Confederate artillery that was about to pound Union lines before the infantry assault. He was 28 years old, and he was about to be handed one of the war's most terrible responsibilities. Just before the bombardment began, Alexander received a note from General James Longstreet, his commanding officer. It read: "If the artillery fire does not have the effect to drive off the enemy or greatly demoralize him so as to make our efforts pretty certain, I would prefer that you should not advise General Pickett to make the charge. I shall rely a great deal on your good judgment to determine the matter." Alexander was stunned. Longstreet was making him—a 28-year-old colonel—decide whether to launch one of the war's most massive infantry assaults. It should have been Longstreet's decision. Or Lee's. But Longstreet, who opposed the attack and had argued against it, was passing the burden to Alexander. If Alexander ordered the charge and it failed, the blood of thousands would be on his hands. He sent a hurried reply: If there was any alternative to the attack, it should be carefully considered before he began using his limited ammunition. Longstreet responded, essentially repeating himself: the infantry would advance if the artillery created the right conditions. Alexander should advise when that moment arrived. The weight was still on Alexander's shoulders. He ordered the bombardment to begin. For two hours, approximately 75 Confederate cannons pounded Union positions along Cemetery Ridge. The noise was deafening. Smoke covered the battlefield. It was the largest artillery bombardment of the war. But Alexander knew something was wrong. The Confederate guns were overshooting—shells were landing behind Union lines, not on them. And worse, the Union artillery was firing back effectively. Still, around 1:30 PM, Alexander noticed some Union guns being pulled back. Maybe they were running out of ammunition. Maybe the bombardment had worked. He had to make a decision. Now. Alexander sent an urgent message to General George Pickett: "If you are coming at all you must come immediately or I cannot give you proper support; but the enemy's fire has not slackened materially, and at least 18 guns are still firing from the cemetery itself." It wasn't a confident recommendation. It was a desperate calculation—go now or don't go at all, because the artillery support was running out. Pickett showed the message to Longstreet and asked if he should advance. Longstreet, still opposed to the attack, couldn't bring himself to say yes. He just nodded. Pickett saluted and said, "I am going to move forward, sir." Twelve thousand Confederate soldiers—Pickett's division and supporting units—stepped out of the woods and began marching across open ground toward Union lines. It was magnificent and doomed. Union artillery tore into the advancing lines. Then rifles opened up. The Confederate soldiers kept coming, closing ranks as men fell. A few hundred made it to the Union lines—the "High Water Mark of the Confederacy"—before being killed or captured. Over half the attacking force was killed, wounded, or captured. Pickett's division was destroyed. And Alexander had given the order that launched them. To understand the weight Porter Alexander carried that day, you need to understand who he was. Born in Georgia in 1835, Alexander graduated third in his class from West Point in 1857. He was brilliant—particularly in mathematics and engineering. When Georgia seceded, Alexander resigned his commission and joined the Confederate Army as an artillery officer. He quickly proved himself exceptional. He pioneered the use of signal flags for battlefield communication. He experimented with observation balloons. At Chancellorsville, his artillery deployment was crucial to Lee's victory. By Gettysburg, at age 28, he was the chief of artillery for Longstreet's Corps—one of the most important artillery positions in the Confederate Army. But at Gettysburg, that position came with an impossible burden. After Pickett's Charge failed, Alexander had to live with his role in ordering it. He'd known the conditions weren't ideal. He'd warned that Union fire hadn't slackened. But he'd given the signal anyway. For the rest of his life, he analyzed that decision. Could he have refused? Should he have? What if he'd waited longer? There were no good answers. He'd been given an impossible choice and made the best decision he could with imperfect information. The war continued for Alexander. In August 1864, during the Siege of Petersburg, he was shot through the shoulder. He survived and returned to duty. At Appomattox, when Lee was preparing to surrender, Alexander made one final recommendation. He suggested Lee disperse the army—send soldiers home to continue guerrilla resistance rather than formally surrender. Lee's response was devastating in its moral clarity: "If I took your advice, the men would be without rations and under no control of officers. They would be compelled to rob and steal in order to live. They would become mere bands of marauders... We would bring on a state of affairs it would take the country years to recover from." Lee continued: "You young fellows might go bushwhacking, but the only dignified course for me would be to go to General Grant and surrender myself and take the consequences of my acts." Alexander later wrote: "I had not a single word to say in reply. He had answered my suggestion from a plane so far above it, that I was ashamed of having made it." It was a lesson in leadership and responsibility that Alexander never forgot. After the war, Alexander rebuilt his life. He became a mathematics professor. He worked as a railroad executive, eventually becoming president of several railroad companies. In 1897, President Grover Cleveland appointed him to an international commission resolving a boundary dispute between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. But Alexander is remembered primarily for his writing. In 1907, at age 72, he published Military Memoirs of a Confederate—widely regarded as the best and most objective memoir written by any Confederate officer. Unlike many Confederate veterans who romanticized the war or made excuses for defeat, Alexander analyzed battles with brutal honesty. He criticized Confederate mistakes. He acknowledged Union skill. He assessed decisions—including his own—with clear-eyed judgment. His personal memoirs, unpublished during his lifetime, were finally released in 1989 as Fighting for the Confederacy. They're even more candid, offering unvarnished observations about Confederate leadership, strategy, and the war's conduct. Historians treasure these memoirs because Alexander wrote without ego or agenda. He was a trained engineer analyzing military operations the way he'd analyze a bridge design—objectively, looking for what worked and what failed. Edward Porter Alexander died in Savannah, Georgia on April 28, 1910, at age 74. His legacy is complex. He fought for the Confederacy, defending slavery. That's an inescapable part of his story. But his military contributions—particularly in artillery tactics and his written analysis—remain studied at military academies today. And his role at Gettysburg stands as one of the war's most dramatic moments: a 28-year-old colonel forced to decide whether thousands of men should march to probable death. He gave the order. He lived with that decision for 47 years. And he never stopped analyzing whether he could have chosen differently. Porter Alexander commanded the artillery for Pickett's Charge. His general made him decide when to attack. He gave the signal. Over 6,000 men were killed, wounded, or captured in the assault that followed. He spent the rest of his life trying to understand if he'd made the right call. That's not just a war story. That's a meditation on responsibility, decision-making under impossible pressure, and living with the consequences of choices that cost lives. |
| She escaped the 87th floor of the North Tower covered in ash. A photographer captured her survival. Seventeen years later, she invited him to photograph her wedding. This is Joanne Capestro. September 11, 2001. 8:46 AM. Joanne Capestro was at her desk on the 87th floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center when American Airlines Flight 11 struck the building just floors above her. The impact was immediate and violent. The building shook. Debris fell. Smoke began filling the floors above. Joanne and her co-workers knew they had to evacuate. Immediately. They began the descent—87 floors down crowded stairwells filled with smoke, debris, and thousands of people trying to escape. Each floor took precious minutes. Each minute mattered. For over an hour, Joanne made her way down through the damaged building, not knowing if the stairs would hold, if the building would collapse, if she'd make it out alive. Finally, after what must have felt like an eternity, Joanne emerged from the North Tower onto the street. She was covered head to toe in gray ash and debris. Her clothes, her hair, her skin—everything was coated in the dust of pulverized building materials. She was alive. She'd escaped. But the nightmare wasn't over. At 9:59 AM—just minutes after Joanne exited the North Tower—the South Tower collapsed. A massive cloud of debris, ash, and smoke exploded through the streets of lower Manhattan. The collapse sent a wall of dust racing toward survivors who'd just escaped. Joanne and her co-worker ran through the ash-filled streets, trying to get away from the collapsing tower, trying to find safety in a city that had become apocalyptic. In that moment—covered in ash, running through streets that looked like a war zone—a photographer captured her image. His name was Phil Penman, a British freelance photographer who'd rushed to the scene when the first plane hit. He was documenting the chaos, the horror, the human faces of an unfolding catastrophe. When he saw Joanne and her co-worker walking through the ash cloud, he raised his camera and took their photo. The image is haunting: two women, completely covered in gray ash, walking through streets filled with debris. Behind them, the destruction is visible. On their faces—shock, exhaustion, the thousand-yard stare of people who've just survived something incomprehensible. Joanne didn't know her photo had been taken. She was focused on survival, on getting away, on processing what had just happened. Twenty-nine minutes after she escaped the North Tower, at 10:28 AM, it collapsed too. If she'd been just minutes slower in her evacuation, she wouldn't have made it. In the days and weeks after September 11, Joanne's photo—along with countless others from that day—circulated in newspapers and media coverage. It became one of the iconic images from 9/11, representing the survivors, the ash-covered New Yorkers who'd escaped the towers. But for years, Phil Penman didn't know who the women in his photo were. He'd captured a moment of history, but the subjects remained anonymous. And Joanne didn't know who'd taken her photo, or that it had become famous. Seventeen years passed. In 2018, through social media and the efforts of people who'd seen both Phil's photo and Joanne's story, they finally connected. Phil Penman and Joanne Capestro—photographer and subject—met for the first time since that terrible day. The reunion was emotional. Phil showed Joanne the photo he'd taken. Joanne saw herself as she'd looked in those moments after escaping the North Tower—covered in ash, in shock, alive. They talked about that day. About where they'd each been, what they'd seen, what they'd felt. About the trauma and the survival and the years of processing what they'd experienced. And they formed a connection—two people forever linked by a photograph taken during one of America's darkest days. In 2019, Joanne got married. When planning her wedding, she made a special request: she wanted Phil Penman to be her wedding photographer. The man who'd photographed her on the worst day of her life would now photograph her on one of the happiest. Phil accepted. At Joanne's wedding, he captured images of joy, celebration, love—a complete contrast to the ash-covered survivor he'd photographed 18 years earlier. The symbolism was powerful: from destruction to creation, from death to life, from tragedy to triumph. Joanne's story represents something important about 9/11 survivors. She escaped the 87th floor of the North Tower. She ran through collapsing debris. She survived when nearly 3,000 others didn't. But survival wasn't the end of her story—it was the beginning of decades of living with trauma, processing grief, rebuilding life, and eventually finding joy again. Many 9/11 survivors struggle with PTSD, health issues from toxic dust exposure, survivor's guilt, and the ongoing question: why did I survive when so many didn't? Joanne has spoken publicly about her experience, sharing her story so others understand what survivors went through and continue to experience. The photo Phil Penman took is more than just a historical document. It's a moment frozen in time—proof that Joanne Capestro survived, that she walked out of hell covered in ash but alive. And her wedding photos—taken by the same photographer—are proof that survival can lead to healing, that trauma doesn't have to be the end of the story, that life continues even after unimaginable horror. Today, September 11, 2001 feels both recent and distant. Twenty-three years have passed, yet for survivors like Joanne, that day is always present. The photo of her covered in ash, walking through destroyed streets, reminds us of the human faces behind the statistics. Behind "2,977 victims" are individual stories—people at work, people who evacuated, people who didn't make it, people who did. Joanne Capestro was on the 87th floor when the first plane hit. She made it down 87 floors and out of the building before it collapsed. She was photographed in a moment of survival, covered in the ash of destruction. Seventeen years later, she reunited with the photographer and invited him to capture her wedding—a moment of joy, of life continuing, of survival transforming into living. Her story isn't just about September 11. It's about what comes after—the decades of healing, the choice to keep living, the determination to find happiness despite carrying the weight of that terrible day. The ash-covered woman in Phil Penman's photograph is the same woman smiling in her wedding photos. Both images tell her story—survival and resilience, tragedy and hope, loss and life. We remember September 11 for those who died. But we also remember for those who survived—like Joanne Capestro, who walked through hell covered in ash and lived to build a life beyond that day. Her photo reminds us: survival is the first step, but living—truly living—is the victory. |
| He wrote his masterpiece in poverty so extreme they sold everything—even her hair dryer—just to afford postage to mail the manuscript. The book won the Nobel Prize. Gabriel García Márquez first saw Mercedes Barcha when he was 13 years old, at a school dance in Sucre, Colombia. She was striking—confident, beautiful, with an air of self-possession unusual for a girl her age. He was immediately smitten. In a moment of adolescent bravado, he declared to his friends: "I'm going to marry that girl." She barely noticed him. In what might have been a joke or a dare, they had a mock "wedding" ceremony as teenagers—the kind of playful thing children do. But for García Márquez, it wasn't entirely a joke. He was serious about Mercedes from the moment he saw her. The problem was, he had nothing to offer. He was a poor scholarship student from a large, struggling family. Mercedes came from a prosperous family—her father was a pharmacist, and they lived comfortably. The social gap between them was significant. So García Márquez did what poor, ambitious young men have always done: he left to make something of himself. He pursued journalism, writing, literature—determined to become someone worthy of Mercedes Barcha. They stayed in sporadic contact over the years. He would write her letters. She would respond occasionally, guardedly. He pursued his career in journalism, moving from city to city, always broke, always writing, always thinking about the girl he'd declared he would marry when he was 13. It took 18 years. Finally, in 1958, when García Márquez was 31 years old and had established himself as a serious journalist and writer, he returned for Mercedes. They married—officially this time—and began building a life together. They had two sons, Rodrigo and Gonzalo. García Márquez continued his journalism career while working on fiction. He published several novels and short story collections that were well-received critically but didn't make much money. And then, in 1965, something happened that would change both their lives forever. García Márquez was driving from Mexico City to Acapulco when, suddenly, the entire plot of a novel appeared in his mind—complete, whole, as if dictated by some external force. It was the story of the Buendía family across multiple generations in the fictional town of Macondo, a multi-generational saga of love, war, magic, and solitude. He turned the car around immediately and drove straight home. When he arrived, he told Mercedes: "I need to write this book. It's going to take a long time, and we're going to run out of money. But I have to do this." Mercedes looked at him and said, simply: "Write it." What followed were 18 months of intense, obsessive work. García Márquez wrote every single day, disappearing into his study for hours, emerging only for meals. He was possessed by the story, by the Buendías, by Macondo. And their financial situation became increasingly desperate. García Márquez had quit his regular journalism work to focus entirely on the novel. They were living on savings that were rapidly disappearing. Bills piled up. Creditors called. The pressure was immense—not just the creative pressure of writing what he hoped would be his masterpiece, but the crushing practical reality of supporting a family with no income. At one point, García Márquez sold their car—their only valuable possession—just to buy a few more months of time to write. Mercedes managed everything. She stretched every peso as far as it would go. She dealt with landlords, utility companies, grocery bills. She shielded her husband from the constant financial emergencies so he could focus entirely on writing. She told the children to be quiet when Papa was working. She protected his creative space with fierce determination. Friends and family thought they were crazy. Why was García Márquez wasting time on a novel when he could be earning money as a journalist? Why was Mercedes enabling this impractical dream when their children needed to eat? But Mercedes believed in him. She believed in the book. And she refused to let anything—poverty, doubt, pressure—stop him from finishing it. Finally, in 1966, after 18 months of work, the manuscript of One Hundred Years of Solitude was complete. It was massive—nearly 500 pages, the story of seven generations of the Buendía family, filled with magical realism, tragedy, comedy, history, and myth. García Márquez and Mercedes looked at the finished manuscript with exhausted triumph. They'd done it. He'd written the book he'd been carrying inside him. Now they just needed to send it to the publisher in Buenos Aires. And that's when they discovered they didn't have enough money for postage. The manuscript was heavy. International postage from Mexico City to Argentina was expensive. They counted their money—every peso they had left in the house. It wasn't enough. So Mercedes did what she'd been doing for 18 months: she found a way. She went through their apartment, gathering everything of value they hadn't already sold. Jewelry. A radio. Kitchen appliances. And famously, her hair dryer—a luxury item she'd treasured. She sold it all. She took the money and went with García Márquez to the post office. They packaged the manuscript carefully—this 500-page document that represented 18 months of work, years of poverty, and all their hopes for the future. They paid for the postage. They handed it over to the postal clerk. And they walked out of the post office completely, utterly broke. Not a peso left. Nothing of value left in their apartment. Their entire future was now in a package traveling thousands of miles to a publisher who might or might not like the book. As they walked away from the post office, Mercedes—exhausted, anxious, having just sold everything including her beloved hair dryer—said to her husband: "Now all that's left is for the novel to turn out bad." It was a joke, but it was also the truth. They'd gambled everything on this book. The novel arrived in Buenos Aires. The publisher, Editorial Sudamericana, began reading it. And almost immediately, they knew they had something extraordinary. One Hundred Years of Solitude was published in June 1967. Within weeks, it became a sensation. The first edition sold out immediately. A second printing sold out. Then a third. Within months, the novel was being translated into dozens of languages. Critics called it a masterpiece. Readers couldn't stop talking about it. The book that García Márquez had written in poverty, that Mercedes had sacrificed everything to help him finish, became one of the most celebrated novels of the 20th century. It has since sold more than 50 million copies worldwide. It's been translated into 46 languages. It's considered one of the greatest novels ever written in any language. And in 1982, largely on the strength of One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. The book pulled them from poverty instantly. Suddenly, they had money—not just enough to live on, but genuine wealth. García Márquez became one of the most famous writers in the world. They bought a beautiful home in Mexico City. They traveled. They never had to worry about money again. But García Márquez never forgot what it cost. And he never let anyone forget Mercedes's role. In interviews for the rest of his life, he always credited Mercedes as the person who made One Hundred Years of Solitude possible. He called her "the real author" of the book because she'd created the conditions that allowed him to write it. He said she was the strongest person he'd ever known. Mercedes and García Márquez stayed married for 56 years, until his death in 2014. She died in 2020 at age 87. Their love story began with a 13-year-old boy declaring he'd marry a girl who barely knew he existed. It was tested by 18 years of separation, 18 months of desperate poverty, and the gamble of selling everything they owned just to mail a manuscript. And it endured—through global fame, Nobel Prizes, and decades of partnership—because Mercedes Barcha believed in a broke writer's dream when no one else did. He wrote his masterpiece while they lived in poverty so extreme they sold their car, their possessions, even her hair dryer—just to afford the postage to mail the manuscript to a publisher. The book became one of the greatest novels ever written and won him the Nobel Prize. But the real story isn't about the prize or the fame. It's about a woman who sold everything she owned so her husband could finish a book that might fail. As she said walking out of the post office, broke and anxious: "Now all that's left is for the novel to turn out bad." It turned out to be one of the greatest novels in human history. And none of it would exist without her hair dryer money and her unwavering faith. |
| She buried her husband on Monday, gave birth on Wednesday, and by Friday she was begging for work with a newborn strapped to her back—because surrender wasn't in her vocabulary. Spring, 1887. Dodge City, Kansas. Elizabeth Morrow was twenty-two when typhoid took her husband in three brutal days. She was eight months pregnant, had seventeen cents to her name, and knew exactly two people in town—both of whom had their own troubles. The funeral was on credit she couldn't pay. Two days later, her daughter arrived early, screaming into a world that had no mercy to spare. Most women in her position had three choices: remarry quickly, return to family back East, or fade into the kind of poverty that swallowed people whole. Elizabeth had no family to return to. She refused to marry for survival. So she chose the fourth option—the one nobody talks about because it requires breaking yourself daily and rebuilding every morning. She took washing work, scrubbing other people's clothes in a tin basin while her daughter slept in a crate lined with flour sacks. When that wasn't enough, she cleaned saloons before dawn, sweeping up yesterday's shame before respectable folks woke. When that wasn't enough, she took night work at the hotel, changing sheets and emptying chamber pots while her baby cried two blocks away with a neighbor who charged by the hour. The hunger was constant. The exhaustion was biblical. Some nights she'd stand over her sleeping daughter and just shake—from cold, from fear, from the terrible mathematics of survival that never quite added up. She wore the same dress for two years. She went days eating nothing but the stale bread the bakery would've thrown out anyway. Her hands aged a decade in twelve months. But she never missed a rent payment. Never let her daughter go without milk. Never stopped humming lullabies even when her voice cracked from crying. By 1895, Elizabeth had saved enough to open a small boarding house. By 1900, she owned the building. Her daughter, Mary, grew up watching her mother transform exhaustion into empire, one brutal day at a time. Mary became a teacher, then a school principal—one of the first women in Kansas to hold the position. When Mary gave the commencement speech at Dodge City High School in 1923, she began with this: "My mother taught me that dignity isn't what you're given—it's what you refuse to surrender. She scrubbed floors so I could stand at this podium. That's not just survival. That's revolution in calico and soap." Elizabeth Morrow lived to age eighty-three, long enough to see her daughter retire with a pension, her grandchildren graduate college, her great-grandchildren born into a world she'd clawed into existence with bleeding hands and unbreakable will. They asked her once, near the end, what kept her going through those impossible years. She thought for a long moment, then smiled. "Every morning I'd look at Mary and think: this child will never know what hunger tastes like. This child will never beg. And that thought was stronger than any exhaustion." Some women survive. Some women endure. Elizabeth Morrow built a dynasty on her back, one brutal day at a time, and called it love. |
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