Commentary

For the life of me, I can't understand my family's unwavering support and love for the hometown football team. But I admire it.

Cornelia Walker Bailey knew Sapelo Island’s history and was determined to get it straight. As the unofficial griot (a West African term for a historian or storyteller) of Hog Hammock, the last remaining of the original African American communities founded by the island’s population of freed slaves and their descendants, she taught it every chance she got.

My daughters are three and six years old, and today I had to face them.

I thought I would live in Chicago until the day I died. But life has a way of forcing you to improvise, to adjust, to do things you never imagined. For me, a lifelong Midwesterner, one of the greatest adjustments involved learning to drive.

Western culture idolizes feeling good, making us chronically incapable of facing human fragility. People shun discussions of death. They fear talking about grief. If you haven’t yet squirmed in grief’s grip, I’m sorry to say, it’s ahead.

Sara Totonchi and Marissa McCall Dodson of the nonprofit law firm Southern Center for Human Rights on how the next governor of Georgia must continue Governor Nathan Deal's mission of criminal justice reform.

It can’t have been easy to be a Cobb resident this week. Since Monday’s surprise announcement of the Braves’ impending relocation to a vacant lot near Cumberland Mall, the prevailing attitude from the rest of the metro area has been: Effing *Cobb*. Those highway-worshipin’, Applebees-eatin’ suburbanites spit in the face of progress [time][1] and [again][2], then steal our baseball team.

Paris is my hometown, a city I love more than any on Earth. And as anyone can tell you who has watched the 1966 movie The Battle of Algiers, Parisians discovered citywide terrorism practically before anyone else.

The problem isn’t that residents have chosen not to participate in the process of renovation downtown Atlanta's Central Library; it’s that they weren’t given the opportunity to truly engage in the process.

For no reason other than Terry Kay is a writer of novels, I sometimes imagine there is a small corner of heaven reserved for my dearest friend of 60 years. To banish him to everlasting hell would represent a clear case of literary redundancy. How else would I describe his state of mind in 1989 when he typed the words, “He understood what they were thinking and saying: Old man that he is, what’s to become of him?”