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The second semester of my freshman year of college, I found Jesus. When it happened—it being when I came before the saints and admitted I was a sinner in need of a savior—all I could think about was how happy my mother would be. She’d been sending (tithing) her good, hard-earned money (disability and welfare checks) to every pompadoured, polished, bedazzled, fork-tongued televangelist for years in hopes of saving her wayward children.
I found Jesus because in the first semester of my freshman year, I’d found love. That fall, I slowly fell for a wiry, bespectacled boy from Chicago whom I’d mistaken for a professor because he carried a briefcase and wore a shirt and tie with impeccably creased dress slacks. He seemed taken at first sight of me. I was conceited with the stuff of youth, complaining but delighting in being the chosen object of his infatuation.
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Summer, 2002. Flags and bunting billow as the UK marks Queen Elizabeth II’s Golden Jubilee. The Three Lions put in a better than expected performance at the World Cup, but in true English fashion, there is grumbling because the glory of almost four decades previous could not be replicated. Despite the cultural distractions, real political […]
- by Aeon Video
Palestinian human rights lawyer Diana Buttu on Israel’s ongoing nakba and the fight for freedom from Gaza to the West Bank.
The post “We Have to Start Thinking in Terms of Decolonization” appeared first on The Intercept.
- by Kiki Fehling
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