Seventeen suns rising in seventeen bedroom windows. Thirty-four eyes blooming open with the light of one more morning. Seventeen reflections in the bathroom mirror. Seventeen backpacks or briefcases stuffed with textbooks or lesson plans. Seventeen good mornings at kitchen breakfasts and seventeen goodbyes at front doors. Seventeen drives through palm-lined streets and miles of crammed highways to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School at 5901 Pine Island Road. The first bell ringing in one last school day on February fourteenth, 2018. Seventeen echoes of footsteps down hallways for five class periods: algebra, poetry, biology, art, history. Seventeen hands writing on whiteboards or taking notes at their desks until the first gunshot at 2:21pm. One AR-15 rifle in the hands of a nineteen year old mind turning hate for himself into hate for others, into one hundred fifty bullets fired in six minutes through building number twelve. Seventeen dead carried down hallways they walked, past cases of trophies they won, flyers for clubs they belonged to, lockers they won’t open again. Seventeen Valentine’s Day dates broken and cards unopened. Seventeen bodies to identify, dozens of photo albums to page through and remember their lives. Seventeen caskets and burial garments to choose for them. Seventeen funerals to attend in twelve days. Seventeen graves dug and headstones placed-all marked with the same date of death. Seventeen names: Alyssa. Helena. Scott. Martin-seventeen ab- sentees forever-Nicholas. Aaron. Jamie. Luke-seventeen closets to clear out-Christopher. Cara. Gina. Joaquin-seventeen empty beds-Alaina. Meadow. Alex. Carmen. Peter-seventeen reasons to rebel with the hope these will be the last seventeen to be taken by one of three-hundred-ninety-three-million guns in America.

Richard Blanco

Để đánh dấu 60 năm ca hát của nam ca sĩ Elvis Phương qua album này thì thật là đáng tiếc. 13 ca khúc và hai bonus tracks không thể nào đủ để đại diện cho khoảng đường dài trong nghệ thuật của anh. Qua 60 năm, chất giọng của anh vẫn khỏe mạnh. Cách hát và cách phát âm của anh vẫn không thay đổi nên nghe cũng có gì lạ tai. Những bài hòa âm không đạt lắm. Một cơ hội bị lỡ.

On December 21, 2021, I took a semi-private, two-hour snowboarding lesson with my son Đán for the first time at Attitash. Our instructor was a young man in his 20s. In our conversation, he told me that he had taught snowboard and ski. I was in awe.

In our lesson, I could barely keep up with Đán. I fell on my ass so many times. My legs were burned and my feet were in pain. The worst part was when I lost my balance on the magic carpet. I tried to push my left hand again the snow, but I landed on the mechanical part of the conveyor belt. My fingers didn’t get chopped off, but my thumb bruised and I was in pain for months afterward.

After our lesson, our instructor told us to keep practicing on the bunny slope, but Đán went on the lift to the green slope. He fell, got back up, and kept snowboarding. He advanced to blue and black, and double-black terrains on his own. As for me, I gave up on snowboarding and focused on skiing. I eventually advanced to blue, black, and double-black terrains on skiing. I was a happy skier, but I was not completely satisfied. Maybe it was my own egotistical, but I felt as if I had failed to learn snowboarding. Then the instructor’s words came to mind. If he could teach skiing and snowboarding, I could learn both. I set out a challenge for myself.

Exactly one year later, December 21, 2022, I took another snowboarding lesson at Okemo. Even though I signed up for a group lesson, the students were just me and another young lady. We had the instructor to ourselves for the entire day. She and I were around the same level. The lesson was also tough. We fell over and over again. Once we were on the green slope, I skated on one foot on a flat terrain, but I couldn’t stop as I picked up the speed. I fell and twisted my ankle. It was a weird twist, but somehow I didn’t sprain anything.

After the lesson, I practiced on my own and continued to fall until I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. I could not skate off the chairlift without falling, but I determined to push forward. It took me a couple of days to stop falling and to control my speed. I watched YouTube lessons to advance to blue, black, and double-black terrains. It was not the right way to learn. I should have taken my time to learn to ride smoothly on the green slopes first before progressing to the next level. After having survived the double-black slopes, I went back to learn proper riding techniques on the green and blue slopes. Because I survived black and double-black slopes, focusing on the techniques was easier.

Skiing and snowboarding are great winter sports. They get me out of the house and off my digital devices. I used to hate the winter because I was afraid of the cold and I kept getting sick. Now I love the winter and I hadn’t been sick during the winter in the last two years I started skiing and snowboarding. If you never tried skiing or snowboarding, you should definitely give it a shot. You can start at any age. I wished I started earlier, but I got into these sports in my 40s. You can choose skiing or snowboarding or both.

I am glad that I have learn both skiing and snowboarding. Even though they share the same playing field, they are two completely different sports. I had to switch my brain from one to another. I still have more techniques to learn in both sports, but I am happy with my journey. I have achieved my personal goals. Now that I know I can do anything when I put my mind to it.

Giọng Hồng Nhung Đỗ tốt và những bài phối khí cũng chất lượng. Một album nhạc Trịnh hoàn hảo. Thế nhưng lại nghe không thấm thía. Chắc có lẽ tôi đã nghe quá nhiều album Trịnh Công Sơn và mỗi lần nghe một sản phẩm mới tôi khao khát được nghe những gì khác lạ hơn. Chứ cứ hát đi hát lại nhạc Trịnh như xưa nay thì cũng không có sự thay đổi gì. Album này hay nhưng thiếu đặc điểm riêng.

In her latest Netflix special, Mo’Nique talked about her past, her fame, her relationships, her faith, and her secret. She was placed in special education. She was a successful actress. She grew up with a loving grandmother who couldn’t except her trans daughter because she believed in god. She married three times. She also had a secret to share. Her special was raw, real, and revealing. Definitely worth streaming.

Germaine, your poem this week is quite striking-so heartfelt and full of captivating imagery, right from the start.

I miss the sun replaced by fluorescent lights
flickering in my cell. I miss the sky, a kinder
blue than the sapphire police lights still
spinning in my memory. I miss the moon,
a gentler shine than the guards’ badges
as steely as their blue eyes piercing me.

You continue with even more powerful images that describe your isolation.

I’m smoke trapped in a jar, a star behind
a wall of clouds. I’m a garden of shadows.

Impressive. Your love for poetry during your college days really shows through. But I’m especially taken by the lines that confess your true “want.”

More than the sun, the sky, or the moon,
I want my son. I’ve become nothing but
want, but my want and I are locked up.

A powerful turn where you truly open up to the emotional core of the poem and begin speaking to your son directly.

Son: see my hand still tying the red shoelaces
on your silver Nikes. Taste the Rocky Road
ice cream dripping from our chins. Watch
us watching Batman on our lumpy couch.
Remember when I was your hero? Hear
us still singing our favorite hip-hop songs-
lyrics of lives we knew by heart. Remember
the plastic handcuffs you played with, not
the metal handcuffs that took me away.

Those vivid and tenderly rendered details really bring your son to life. They let me miss and mourn him as you do when you reveal that he died while you were jailed. You close the poem perfectly by grounding it in imagery that lets us feel your sorrow and emptiness.

Words are my only escape now. In this poem,
I turn iron bars into shadows I walk through
to see your eyes shine, hold your lifeless face
in my palms, kiss your cold forehead goodbye.
In this poem, I curse God and myself-wail
my amens, join the sobbing choir at church.
In this poem I turn back time, stop the bullet,
draw blood back into your body. In this poem,
I save you and you save me from myself.

Richard Blanco

Phương Phương Thảo hát nhạc trữ tình không theo giai điệu bolero mà theo phong cách thính phòng. Với tiếng đàn guitar của nhạc sĩ Vĩnh Tâm và nhạc sĩ Hoàng Vũ Anh Tuấn, Phương Phương Thảo thổi làng gió nhẹ nhàng và ngọt ngào vào những tình khúc để đời của nhạc sĩ Lam Phương như “Thành phố buồn”, “Giọt lệ sầu”, “Phút cuối”, và “Chờ người”. Tuy Phương Phương Thảo trình bài những ca khúc của các nhạc sĩ khác cũng rất tới, nhưng ước gì cô dành trọn vẹn album acoustic này cho cố nhạc sĩ Lam Phương với những ca khúc như “Duyên kiếp”, “Tình bơ vơ”, “Một mình”, “Cỏ úa”, và “Đường về quê hương”.

Hôm qua trên đường lái xe từ tiểu bang Vermont đầy băng tuyết về lại thủ đô Hoa Thịnh Đốn ấm áp, tôi nghe Lệ xa người mà lòng hướng về quê hương. Dù bất cứ nơi nào trên thế giới, nghe tình khúc của cố nhạc sĩ Lam Phương là không thể nào không cảm nhận được Việt Nam vì nhạc của ông từ lời ca đến giai điệu đến tâm hồn luôn đậm nét Việt Nam.

Back to the sunshine state, but I already miss the snow. Here’s a compilation video for our Mount Snow spring break. I also created a few fun shorts.

Maybe you don’t remember, or don’t want to, or
maybe, like me, you’ve never been able to forget:
May 1979, fifth-grade recess, I grabbed your collar,
shoved you up against the wall behind the chapel,
called you a sissy-ass americano to your face, then
punched you-hard as I could. Maybe you still live,
as I do, with the awful crack of my knuckles’ slam o
n your jaw, and the grim memory of your lip split.

Why didn’t you punch me back? That would’ve hurt
less than the jab of your blue eyes dulled with pain-
how you let your body wilt, lean into me, and we
walked arm in arm to the boys’ room, washed off
the blood and dirt. Is that how you remember it?
What you can’t remember is what I thought when
our gazes locked in the mirror and I wanted to say:
I’m sorry, maybe I love you. Perhaps even kiss you.

Did you feel it, too? At that instant did we both
somehow understand what I’m only now capable
of putting into these words: that I didn’t hate you,
but envied you-the americano sissy I wanted to be
with sheer skin, dainty freckles, the bold consonants
of your English name, your perfectly starched shirts,
pleated pants, that showy Happy Days lunchbox,
your A-plus spelling quizzes that I barely passed.

Why didn’t you snitch on me? I don’t remember now
who told Sister Magdalene, but I’ll never forget how
she wrung my ears until I cried for you, dragged me
to the back of the room, made me stand for the rest
of that day, praying the rosary to think hard about
my sins. And I did, I have for thirty-two years, Derek.
Whether you don’t remember, don’t want to, or never
forgot: forgive me, though I may never forgive myself.

Richard Blanco

Forced to leave home, but home
never leaves us. Wherever exile
takes us, we remain this body made
from the red earth of our island-
our ribs taken from its montes–
its breeze our breaths. We stand
with its palmeras. Our eyes hold
its blue-green sea. Waterfalls
echo in our ears. On our wrists,
jasmine. Our palms open, close
like its hibiscus to love, be loved.

We thrive wherever we remain
true to our lucha-the hustle
of our feet walking to work
as we must, our oily hands
fixing all the broken beauty
we must fix, our soiled hands
growing what we must grow,
or cutting what must be cut,
our backs carrying the weight
of our island’s sands, our pulse
its waves, our sweat the gossamer
dew and dust of its sunrises,
our voice the song of its sinsontes
and its son nested in our souls.

Wherever the world spins us,
home remains the island that
remains in us. Its sun still sets
in our eyes, its clouds stay still
above us, our hands still hold
its tepid rain. We’re still caught
under its net of stars, still listen to
its moon crooning above its dirt
roads. We’re its rivers, the hem
of its coast and lace of its sierras,
its valley windsongs, its vast seas
of green sugarcane fields. We’re
our island’s sweetness as bitter
as the taste of having to leave it.

Richard Blanco