For the first 8.5 years of our marriage, my husband spent his life as some combination of grad student/grad teacher/dissertation writer or adjunct professor. He worked nearly constantly—writing his dissertation, doing course prep, grading, writing articles, applying for jobs, and driving. We lived on the border of Washington, DC, with its high cost of living, to be close to his school. Fortunately, I found work along the nearest metro line and eventually began my own graduate program.
A reflection on the powerful history of Woody Guthrie's 'This Land is Your Land' along with concerns about how its use may unintentionally reinforce settler colonialism.
I am an information scientist. Wolfram Alpha, tell me how many days my mother lived. I am the young woman in a fairy tale. Wolfram Alpha, tell me the day I'll die.
Sometimes I forget things that I have the power to do, whether nominating someone for an award, sending a kudos to their boss, complimenting their work in a public forum, etc.
At first, we tried to continue as before: hacking our cars free of the clutching tendrils which grew up every night, bumping along highways until our combined weight pulverized vines into a grimy sludge. One-by-one, buildings blacked out as the weight of growth downed power lines. We left our offices and tried to support the linemen. Then cell towers choked. Signal not found.
We drove plows 24/7 to keep the roads clear. We salted the roads. We salted the earth. The blacktop crumbled. Creepers curled into machinery and slowly cars, buses, trains all failed. Skyscrapers fell…