It is a well-recognized feature of the holiday pilgrimage: We children pay homage and respect to our parents by fixing the problems we see in their information technology. We buy them new gizmos, too, and require them to learn how to 'Facetime' with grandkids or to get on Facebook to see pictures of the family. Point being, we ask our parents to figure out how to do new things all the time. And in many of those cases, we actually teach them how to do it: we lead the cursor around the screen and dictate hows and wherefores, while Bing Crosby plays in the background.
My own parents are quite technologically savvy. My mom might be the most prolific blogger I know and runs databases at work. My dad has a sweet Apple rig and has been using computers since Compaq's portables came in a little suitcase. They got our first computer when I was five (that'd be the mid 80s) and the Internet when I was 11 (that'd be the early 90s). Both are avid social media users. In other words, they're early adopters who are not afraid of technology.
And yet, when I go home sometimes, I realize that while my parents are good at doing the right things on their computers, they are terrible at doing the wrong things.
Let me explain.
It's hard to do something irreparable to your computer when you're messing around with a browser or iPhoto. Things are correctable. Settings can be reset. Problems can be fixed. So, it makes sense to simply try stuff. Click here, click there. Is the menu in this tab or that one? What happens if I change this radio button? What's this view look like?
In the argot of videogaming, you button mash until you find what works. And if you watch almost any kid with a digital device, this is how they work. Swipe, tap, click, shake, spin. They try it all until they've exhausted the interaction possibilities and understand what's supposed to happen.
Yet whenever my parents see me engaging in this time-honored learning practice, they get anxious. My dad peers over my shoulder, asking me what I'm doing. My mom asks me to slow down.
But I don't know what I'm doing until I've done it. So it doesn't make sense for me to narrate or for them to try to duplicate my actions. Because I'm not going to the right spot; I'm running a process of elimination on the wrong spots.
This methodology has served me well for decades now. But only with computers. When it comes to mechanical things, I find that I have the same problem that my parents do on the digital side. If you ask me to put together a piece of furniture or replace a headlight on a car or add a new wire to our electrical system, I worry that I'm going to break something. Permanently. The physical world is not the digital world and it is definitely possible to do permanent damage to things, your own body included. (And let's be honest: I was a big strong kid and I broke a lot of stuff trying to figure it out. I had an uncountable number of interactions with products that ended with the thing in one hand and a shard of plastic in the other.)
And yet I know that not everyone feels this way with physical systems. The atomic materials of the world make intuitive sense to a lot of people. People who feels this way know where they can poke and prod and push and pry and what they should leave alone. That frees them up to experiment with solutions in the white space between the DO NOT TOUCH lines of the mind.
So, from this observation spring two resolutions for 2013: 1) I want to learn how to make the right kinds of mistakes in the physical world. 2) When teaching, I'm going to show my parents (and others) how to screw up their technologies safely. I'll demonstrate how to break, not only how to fix.
The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths. It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs, among them that it is a key agent of the coming apocalypse. Here’s what that means for its strategy—and for how to stop it.
What is the Islamic State?
Where did it come from, and what are its intentions? The simplicity of these questions can be deceiving, and few Western leaders seem to know the answers. In December, The New York Times published confidential comments by Major General Michael K. Nagata, the Special Operations commander for the United States in the Middle East, admitting that he had hardly begun figuring out the Islamic State’s appeal. “We have not defeated the idea,” he said. “We do not even understand the idea.” In the past year, President Obama has referred to the Islamic State, variously, as “not Islamic” and as al-Qaeda’s “jayvee team,” statements that reflected confusion about the group, and may have contributed to significant strategic errors.
The Republican frontrunner has surged in the polls by taking a tough stance on immigration—and if critics want to stop him, that’s what they need to attack.
A new round of attack ads are heading Donald Trump’s way, some from John Kasich’s campaign and the super PAC backing him, and more in the future from an LLC created specifically to produce anti-Trump messages.
New Day for America’s 47-second ad splices together some of the Republican front-runner’s most awkward video moments: his suggestion he might date his daughter, his claim of “a great relationship with the blacks.” The Kasich campaign’s ad turns Martin Niemöller’s famous words “nobody left to speak for me” into a warning from one of John McCain’s fellow Hanoi Hilton POWs that a Trump presidency is a threat to freedom.* John Kasich’s Twitter account has fired direct personal challenges to the famously thin-skinned mogul.
It may not start a new war. But it will make it much harder to stop an old one.
For clues to how the Syrian Civil War might finally end—or devolve into an even more nightmarish conflict—look to the congested skies over Syria.
There, the air forces of countries such as the United States, Russia, Turkey, and Syria are all regularly conducting strikes, often at cross-purposes. And there, on Tuesday, Turkish fighter jets shot down a Russian warplane for allegedly violating Turkey’s airspace. As my colleague Marina Koren notes, the episode marks the first time a NATO country has downed a Russian plane in 63 years.
An entire industry has been built on the premise that creating gourmet meals at home is simple and effortless. But it isn’t true.
I write about food for a living. Because of this, I spend more time than the average American surrounded by cooking advice and recipes. I’m also a mother, which means more often than not, when I return from work 15 minutes before bedtime, I end up feeding my 1-year-old son squares of peanut-butter toast because there was nothing in the fridge capable of being transformed into a wholesome, homemade toddler meal in a matter of minutes. Every day, when I head to my office after a nourishing breakfast of smashed blueberries or oatmeal I found stuck to the pan, and open a glossy new cookbook, check my RSS feed, or page through a stack of magazines, I’m confronted by an impenetrable wall of unimaginable cooking projects, just sitting there pretending to be totally reasonable meals. Homemade beef barbacoa tacos. Short-rib potpie. “Weekday” French toast. Make-ahead coconut cake. They might as well be skyscraper blueprints, so improbable is the possibility that I will begin making my own nut butters, baking my own sandwich bread, or turning that fall farmer’s market bounty into jars of homemade applesauce.
Why are so many kids with bright prospects killing themselves in Palo Alto?
The air shrieks, and life stops. First, from far away, comes a high whine like angry insects swarming, and then a trampling, like a herd moving through. The kids on their bikes who pass by the Caltrain crossing are eager to get home from school, but they know the drill. Brake. Wait for the train to pass. Five cars, double-decker, tearing past at 50 miles an hour. Too fast to see the faces of the Silicon Valley commuters on board, only a long silver thing with black teeth. A Caltrain coming into a station slows, invites you in. But a Caltrain at a crossing registers more like an ambulance, warning you fiercely out of its way.
The kids wait until the passing train forces a gust you can feel on your skin. The alarms ring and the red lights flash for a few seconds more, just in case. Then the gate lifts up, signaling that it’s safe to cross. All at once life revives: a rush of bikes, skateboards, helmets, backpacks, basketball shorts, boisterous conversation. “Ew, how old is that gum?” “The quiz is next week, dipshit.” On the road, a minivan makes a left a little too fast—nothing ominous, just a mom late for pickup. The air is again still, like it usually is in spring in Palo Alto. A woodpecker does its work nearby. A bee goes in search of jasmine, stinging no one.
In the name of emotional well-being, college students are increasingly demanding protection from words and ideas they don’t like. Here’s why that’s disastrous for education—and mental health.
Something strange is happening at America’s colleges and universities. A movement is arising, undirected and driven largely by students, to scrub campuses clean of words, ideas, and subjects that might cause discomfort or give offense. Last December, Jeannie Suk wrote in an online article for The New Yorker about law students asking her fellow professors at Harvard not to teach rape law—or, in one case, even use the word violate (as in “that violates the law”) lest it cause students distress. In February, Laura Kipnis, a professor at Northwestern University, wrote an essay in The Chronicle of Higher Education describing a new campus politics of sexual paranoia—and was then subjected to a long investigation after students who were offended by the article and by a tweet she’d sent filed Title IX complaints against her. In June, a professor protecting himself with a pseudonym wrote an essay for Vox describing how gingerly he now has to teach. “I’m a Liberal Professor, and My Liberal Students Terrify Me,” the headline said. A number of popular comedians, including Chris Rock, have stopped performing on college campuses (see Caitlin Flanagan’s article in this month’s issue). Jerry Seinfeld and Bill Maher have publicly condemned the oversensitivity of college students, saying too many of them can’t take a joke.
Some conservatives are defying expectation and backing the Vermont senator.
When Tarie MacMillan switched on her television in August to watch the first Republican presidential debate, she expected to decide which candidate to support.
But MacMillan, a 65-year-old Florida resident, was disappointed. “I looked at the stage and there was nobody out there who I really liked. It just seemed like a showcase for Trump and his ridiculous comments,” she recalled. “It was laughable, and scary, and a real turning point.”
So she decided to back Bernie Sanders, the self-described “Democratic socialist” challenging Hillary Clinton. MacMillan was a lifelong Republican voter until a few weeks ago when she switched her party affiliation to support the Vermont senator in the primary. It will be the first time she’s ever voted for a Democrat.
When the birds were reintroduced to New England after a long absence, they chose to live in cities instead of the forests they once called home.
William Bradford, looking out at Plymouth from the Mayflower in 1620, was struck by its potential. “This bay is an excellent place,” he later wrote, praising its “innumerable store of fowl.” By the next autumn, the new colonists had learned to harvest the “great store of wild turkeys, of which they took many.”
Soon, they took too many. By 1672, hunters in Massachusetts had “destroyed the breed, so that ‘tis very rare to meet with a wild turkie in the woods.” Turkeys held on in small, isolated patches of land that could not be profitably farmed. But by 1813, they were apparently extirpated from Connecticut; by 1842 from Vermont; and from New York in 1844.
In Massachusetts—land of the Pilgrim’s pride—one tenacious flock hid out on the aptly-named Mount Tom for a while longer. The last bird known to science was shot, stuffed, mounted, and put on display at Yale in 1847, but locals swore they heard the distinctive calls of the toms for another decade. Then the woods fell silent for a hundred years.
If you want to annoy a scientist, say that science isn’t so different from religion. When Ben Carson was challenged about his claim that Darwin was encouraged by the devil, he replied, “I’m not going to denigrate you because of your faith, and you shouldn’t denigrate me for mine.” When the literary theorist Stanley Fish chastised atheists such as Richard Dawkins, he wrote, “Science requires faith too before it can have reasons,” and described those who don't accept evolution as belonging to “a different faith community.”
Scientists are annoyed by these statements because they suggest that science and religion share a certain epistemological status. And, indeed, many humanists and theologians insist that there are multiple ways of knowing, and that religious narratives exist alongside scientific ones, and can even supersede them.
Would body cameras have made justice speedier for Laquan McDonald? Not without new laws.
On October 20, 2014, a white Chicago Police Department officer named Jason Van Dyke fired 16 shots at a black Chicago resident, a 17-year-old named Laquan McDonald. Van Dyke started shooting McDonald while he had his back turned on the officer, and he continued firing after McDonald had fallen to the ground.
McDonald was not carrying a gun at the time, though the city says he was holding a three-inch knife. He died later that night.
On November 24, 2015, the city of Chicago released a video of the killing, captured by a police-car dashboard camera. Hours before releasing the video, Cook County also charged Van Dyke with first-degree murder—the first Chicago cop to be booked for that crime in almost 35 years.