before there were settlers
A poem by Rowan Tate.
A poem by Rowan Tate.
As I reflect on Pennsylvania today, however, I must conclude that this commonwealth in which I reside has gotten much too far away from its origins as a sanctuary for the oppressed.
A poem by Michael Harper.
All of these paintings, the originals in Tuscany, are also viewable down to the most granular detail, by the most strict parameters of verisimilitude, in an Italianate building of white granite and red terra cotta roof in the middle of Pittsburgh.
Author Jake Oresick on some Western Pennsylvania fish fries of yore.
Charles W. Chesnutt was a serial transplant. He found the ancestral North Carolina inhospitable. And in the North--Washington, New York, Cleveland, he was always homesick, from his earliest departures.
My immediate family was irreligious. My grandparents were raised in contradictory faiths, and their first grandchild was the singular blessing, the lone scandal, that could unite them in disbelief.
“Mennonites have not been in the habit of changing details to suit the story: from our very first confessions of faith we've expected language to be a useful, solid bucket to hold truths as clear as water.”
The center didn’t hold. Things fell apart. For the second time in its history, a faith was betrayed and the gates of Eden were soldered shut.
She made a choice in life, and I respect her right to choose to practice (or not practice) a religion that best suits her beliefs. That doesn’t mean I think a pastor should be speaking from a synagogue pulpit on Shabbat.
Alison Vilag pays attention for a living. She counts migrating ducks at Whitefish Point Bird Observatory, near Paradise, Michigan. It's key to getting a pulse on different bird populations. But for Alison, counting ducks is more than just science – it's an escape from the expectations of others.
How does public art limit (or extend) what we can know about the past, present, or future? How can art support us in telling a new story, a shared story about who we are?