Swinging open the living room door – my jaws almost drop to the floor. FIRE. EVERYWHERE.
JOHNSON CITY, Tenn. — When I went to college we rarely discussed immigration. Border politics…
El Paso — It’s Monday night and as I check my bank account balance on my new smart phone ($299), complete with quick access to all the hottest social networking sites and protected by a cover embedded with a designer handbag label ($30), I wonder how I am going to stretch my dollars to make it through to my next payday —12 long days away.
EL PASO — A bead of sweat hits the mat. Adrenaline is pumping through every vein in my body as I am trying to choke out my opponent with rear naked choke. Looking for an arm bar, rear naked choke, guillotine, or kamora, any opening that my opponent gives me I will take.
EL PASO — Parecía ser una invitación más a la nostalgia: “España 1939-2009, 70 años de Exilio Republicano”. Ese tipo de invitaciones que aparecen intempestivamente en los pasillos universitarios de todo el mundo. No sin causa: la vileza humana hace necesaria la celebración cada tanto de tales ceremonias. El 25 de septiembre pasado se reunieron en el auditorio Blumberg de UTEP más de un centenar de personas para escuchar a una mesa de panelistas, y más importante, a un puñado de los verdaderos protagonistas de una de las muchas historias que es la guerra civil española: la tragedia del exilio.
During a challenging year for traditional news media, Borderzine has good news and important milestones…
The things that made me drunk with disappointment, challenge and joy are countless—and they all occurred in a period of just 16 weeks last spring after I agreed to teach just one three-credit introductory journalism class.
People are scared to speak, scared to have their picture taken or to even give their name. When I ask people what they think about the drug war, most of them say: “It’s like hearing the weather reports. It happens everyday…”
In fact, it only takes a simple metro ride to get a sense that the idea of “a typical” Parisian woman—or man, for that matter—seems more of a fiction than a reality. If, for instance, you ride the metro from Odeon to Chatelet—two central and important metro exchanges—you will probably see a number of Parisian women who would not match the “typical” description: from college students wearing chador to women wearing Benetton garb, from girls in military fatigues to women in Senegalese kaftans.