Allen Bullock had been sleeping in jail for more than a week, and not too many people seemed appropriately pissed off about it. In fact, most people I talk to about him just stand silently, blinking, blinking.
Two days after the captured-on-video murder of unarmed black man Walter Scott by white South Carolina police officer Michael Slager, my friend's black teenaged son dared to walk through his Scripps Ranch neighborhood. The nerve.
The only thing obstructing my view of the end of my daughter's fourth-grade year is the ugly last third of it. I say "ugly" because what comes with the final excruciating months is the amplified prep for, and implementation of—wait for it—standardized testing.
My husband’s long-articulated worst nightmare became real last week when he bit down on a piece of smothered chicken he’d made the night before and thought he’d been stuck through the tongue with a bone. But it was no bone. It was a 2-inch-long vertical shard of glass that pierced the roof of his mouth and his tongue.