I know, I know.
He’s my archenemy, right? The Joker? The guy who robs banks and destroys hospitals and sets up bizarre morality plays on ferries?
Believe me, I’m well aware of all the lives he’s taken/ruined.
But all of that being said, I do have to hand it to him — I just heard him speak for three whole minutes without saying something batshit™ and I could not have been more impressed.
It was as if all of the bad stuff he’s ever done suddenly fell out of my brain.
I mean, I will admit our dynamic has been…
Dear [customer’s name here],
We know these are trying times. We’ve seen the same news headlines you have: Stock market tanks. Crude prices plummet. Oh, and uh, people get sick in large numbers.
But we here at Ruthless Bank wanted to send this note to let you know that we are rising to the Covid-19 challenge.
We’re here for you.
Sure, we know things have been a little awkward since we foreclosed on your home. Boy, you sure were upset. In retrospect, we probably could have let you inside one last time to gather your things. And it was absolutely…
We get it, OK?
Jealous of our star power. Jealous of our industry connections. Jealous of that time we think we made Scarlett Johansson half-chuckle in an elevator.
But the criticism of us, the Oscars voters, has gone too far. Now some of you are saying we should have to prove we’ve actually watched the films that are up for consideration.
That is outrageous! Since when is a casual glance at the movie poster and an immediate rendering of judgment not enough?
We don’t have to remind you it’s been a tough stretch for the Academy Awards. The…
(This piece was inspired by the planned — and eventually cancelled — release of “Diverse Editions” of these 12 classic books: https://tinyurl.com/tw7zxz6)
A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies. [add here: “There was shahi paneer as far as the eye could see.”]
“I have been learning something of young Hyde,” said Mr. Utterson.
The large [brown] handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,” said he.
The first time I thought about race — or, if I’m being honest, the first time I tried to hide from my brown skin — was in elementary school.
I was born and raised in a small Canadian town. My mother and father immigrated to this country in the 1970s. Both were born in India.
Mom and dad worked full-time — she at a restaurant, he at a mill — and so the task of picking me up from school often fell to my paternal grandmother. Or, as I referred to her in Punjabi, my bibi.
A lot can happen in a week.
Last Monday I published a piece on my decision to leave The Globe and Mail. I detailed a dispute over a story involving race and spoke to other frustrations on the topic. I also wrote more broadly of the challenges journalists of colour can face — which battles to wage, which to not — and likened the experience to walking a tightrope.
While I expected the piece to generate some discussion, and consider the issues raised within it to be of the utmost importance, I was struck by just how many journalists of…
I’ve thought about this piece, involving the experiences of journalists of colour, a lot the last few months.
The piece, republished by Poynter in June, spoke to the challenges journalists of colour can face in a lily-white industry. The unending fight to share other perspectives. The inner debate to stay or go. The exhaustion of it all.
I suppose the piece stuck with me because I’ve fought at least some of these same battles. If you leave it can feel like you’re letting other people of colour down, throwing in the towel on whatever change you had one day hoped…