An anecdotal review of Swiss media and social media suggests that the Tea Party failed presidential candidate will not be missed in Switzerland.
Then-presidential candidate Michele Bachmann speaks in Iowa. / Reuters
"U.S. Republican Michele Bachmann doesn't want Swiss citizenship anymore," read a headline from Swiss paper Blick on Wednesday. The past week of Michele Bachmann-Swiss citizenship news has been pretty weird even for Americans. But it seems to have been even weirder for the Swiss.
Minnesota Rep. Michele Bachmann and her family, it was recently revealed, have been claiming Swiss citizenship through her husband's immigrant parents. Bachmann became a dual citizen automatically upon marrying her husband in 1978. It only became a story Tuesday due to what appears to have been re-registration as part of her children's claim to Swiss citizenship. After a two-day media frenzy, Bachmann announced Thursday that she was renouncing Swiss citizenship.
The town that the Bachmanns were claiming as their home, it turns out, is a tiny parish called Wigoltingen, population 2200, according to the amused Swiss papers. Amusement -- and bemusement -- appear to be the principal reactions from the Swiss and the Swiss media. "I hardly believe Ms. Bachmann would want to get mixed up with the circus in Bern," a web commenter wrote on a Bachmann story Wednesday, referring to the Swiss Federal Assembly. He offered the joking advice that, if she did participate, the right-wing populist Swiss People's Party would be a good fit. A French-speaking commenter on the Tribune de Genève's site had the same idea: "company for Blocher!" the commenter pointed out, referring to Swiss People's Party Vice President Christoph Blocher.
The Wigoltingen parish president Sonja Wiesmann, for one, is reported by Swiss Blick to be just fine with Bachmann renouncing citizenship, having "experienced the past few days as some of the most hectic since her installation in 2009." Journalists from both Switzerland and America inundated Wiesmann with calls in the past few days. "Luckily," she told the paper, I used to be an au pair in the USA and could communicate well." Blick's online readers seem similarly unoffended by Bachmann's renunciation -- even relieved. "It'd be great if all the Swiss expats followed suit," one commented. "Ufff, thank God!" wrote another. "We have enough loonies in our country already." Bachmann's controversial profile in Switzerland was noted even in the driest news reports: "The canton of Thurgau is about to lose one famous or infamous citizen, depending on your view," concluded the Neue Züricher Zeitung.
What about all the waffling? The Guardianreported on Friday that "Bachmann spokeswoman Becky Rogness declined to comment on whether Bachmann's office had any concerns about offending the Swiss."
The Swiss media, at least, don't seem too offended. "That's how life goes," opened Washington correspondent Martin Kilian's article on the topic for Swiss paper Tages Anzeiger. "One day you're Swiss, the next you'd rather not be." The country probably wouldn't have suited her, he joked rather provocatively: "Here, Latinos are called Germans, aren't illegal, and as a result Bachmann wouldn't have been able to insist on their immediate deportation."
Conclusion? No international embarrassment necessary. As one of the most-liked Swiss comments on Kilian's article said succinctly: "I think we'll get over it"
The condition has long been considered untreatable. Experts can spot it in a child as young as 3 or 4. But a new clinical approach offers hope.
This is a good day, Samantha tells me: 10 on a scale of 10. We’re sitting in a conference room at the San Marcos Treatment Center, just south of Austin, Texas, a space that has witnessed countless difficult conversations between troubled children, their worried parents, and clinical therapists. But today promises unalloyed joy. Samantha’s mother is visiting from Idaho, as she does every six weeks, which means lunch off campus and an excursion to Target. The girl needs supplies: new jeans, yoga pants, nail polish.
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At 11, Samantha is just over 5 feet tall and has wavy black hair and a steady gaze. She flashes a smile when I ask about her favorite subject (history), and grimaces when I ask about her least favorite (math). She seems poised and cheerful, a normal preteen. But when we steer into uncomfortable territory—the events that led her to this juvenile-treatment facility nearly 2,000 miles from her family—Samantha hesitates and looks down at her hands. “I wanted the whole world to myself,” she says. “So I made a whole entire book about how to hurt people.”
She lived with us for 56 years. She raised me and my siblings without pay. I was 11, a typical American kid, before I realized who she was.
The ashes filled a black plastic box about the size of a toaster. It weighed three and a half pounds. I put it in a canvas tote bag and packed it in my suitcase this past July for the transpacific flight to Manila. From there I would travel by car to a rural village. When I arrived, I would hand over all that was left of the woman who had spent 56 years as a slave in my family’s household.
Five years ago, on a boat off the southern coast of Sri Lanka, I met the largest animal that exists or has ever existed.
The blue whale grows up to 110 feet in length. Its heart is the size of a small car. Its major artery is big enough that you could wedge a small child into it (although you probably shouldn’t). It’s an avatar of hugeness. And its size is evident if you ever get to see one up close. From the surface, I couldn’t make out the entire animal—just the top of its head as it exposed its blowhole and took a breath. But then, it dove. As its head tilted downwards, its arching back broke the surface of the water in a graceful roll. And it just kept going, and going, and going. By the time the huge tail finally broke the surface, an unreasonable amount of time had elapsed.
A recent push for diversity has been blamed for weak print sales, but the company’s decades-old business practices are the true culprit.
Marvel Comics has been having a rough time lately. Readers and critics met last year’s Civil War 2—a blockbuster crossover event (and aspiritual tie-in to the year’s big Marvel movie)—with disinterest and scorn. Two years of plummeting print comics sales culminated in a February during which only one series managed to sell over 50,000 copies. Three crossover events designed to pump up excitement came and went with little fanfare, while the lead-up to 2017’s blockbuster crossover Secret Empire—where a fascist Captain America subverts and conquers the United States—sparked such a negative response that the company later put out a statement imploring readers to buy the whole thing before judging it. On March 30, a battered Marvel decided to try and get to the bottom of the problem with a retailer summit—and promptly stuck its foot in its mouth.
The office was, until a few decades ago, the last stronghold of fashion formality. Silicon Valley changed that.
Americans began the 20th century in bustles and bowler hats and ended it in velour sweatsuits and flannel shirts—the most radical shift in dress standards in human history. At the center of this sartorial revolution was business casual, a genre of dress that broke the last bastion of formality—office attire—to redefine the American wardrobe.
Born in Silicon Valley in the early 1980s, business casual consists of khaki pants, sensible shoes, and button-down collared shirts. By the time it was mainstream, in the 1990s, it flummoxed HR managers and employees alike. “Welcome to the confusing world of business casual,” declared a fashion writer for the Chicago Tribune in 1995. With time and some coaching, people caught on. Today, though, the term “business casual” is nearly obsolete for describing the clothing of a workforce that includes many who work from home in yoga pants, put on a clean T-shirt for a Skype meeting, and don’t always go into the office.
Unexpected discoveries in the quest to cure an extraordinary skeletal condition show how medically relevant rare diseases can be.
When Jeannie Peeper was born in 1958, there was only one thing amiss: her big toes were short and crooked. Doctors fitted her with toe braces and sent her home. Two months later, a bulbous swelling appeared on the back of Peeper’s head. Her parents didn’t know why: she hadn’t hit her head on the side of her crib; she didn’t have an infected scratch. After a few days, the swelling vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
When Peeper’s mother noticed that the baby couldn’t open her mouth as wide as her sisters and brothers, she took her to the first of various doctors, seeking an explanation for her seemingly random assortment of symptoms. Peeper was 4 when the Mayo Clinic confirmed a diagnosis: she had a disorder known as fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva (FOP).
Several studies show beneficiaries of the program are more likely to be obese. But the answer is not to cut benefits, some academics say.
Among other programs President Trump proposed slashing in his budget blueprint Tuesday, the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, previously known as the food stamps program, would lose 29 percent of its funding over 10 years.
Conservative groups praised the budget proposal’s combination of boosted defense spending and cuts to “domestic programs that are redundant, improper, or otherwise wasteful,” as Romina Boccia, a fellow in federal budgetary affairs at the Heritage Foundation, said in a statement. Liberal groups, meanwhile, said it would “harm America's most vulnerable people and make matters worse for those who can least afford it,” as Felicia Wong, president of the Roosevelt Institute, a progressive think tank, put it.
I bought into the St. Ives lie for years. In the already insecure times of high school and college, my skin was host to constant colonies of acne, my nose peppered with blackheads, my chin and forehead a topographical horror of cystic zits that lasted for weeks. But as I moved into adulthood, it didn’t go away, making me, I suppose, part of a trend—adult acne is on the rise, particularly among women.
I’m sure it never really seemed so bad to others as it did to me, as is the way with these things. I covered it up with layers of gloppy foundation, then with more proficiently applied makeup later on, then went on hormonal birth control, which improved the situation significantly.
But for many of the years in-between, I washed my face with St. Ives Apricot Scrub, which is an exfoliator made with granules of walnut shell powder. It is extremely rough. Perhaps too rough. We’ll find out: Kaylee Browning and Sarah Basile recently filed a class-action lawsuit against St. Ives’s maker, Unilever, alleging that the wash “leads to long-term skin damage” and “is not fit to be sold as a facial scrub.”
The national park wouldn’t let him collect rocks for research.
“How did the Grand Canyon form?” is a question so commonly pondered that YouTube is rife with explanations. Go down into the long tail of Grand Canyon videos, and you’ll eventually find a two-part, 35-minute lecture by Andrew Snelling. The first sign this isn’t a typical geology lecture comes about a minute in, when Snelling proclaims, “The Grand Canyon does provide a testament to the biblical account of Earth’s history.”
Snelling is a prominent young-Earth creationist. For years, he has given lectures, guided biblical-themed Grand Canyon rafting tours, and worked for the nonprofit Answers in Genesis. (The CEO of Answers in Genesis, Ken Ham, is also behind the Creation Museum and the Ark Encounter theme park.) Young-Earth creationism, in contrast to other forms of creationism, specifically holds that the Earth is only thousands of years old. Snelling believes that the Grand Canyon formed after Noah’s flood—and he now claims the U.S. government is blocking his research in the canyon because of his religious views.