By Susan Senator / Boston The house when we first bought it with our son, Nat, in the driveway. The Door to Nowhere is on the first floor. I live in a dream house, but it’s also a nightmare house. It is an 1880s Victorian that we restored—and I use that term loosely, because a lot of it is still the way it was 140 years ago. (We ran out of money.) For me, the house has everything I had ever dreamed of: nine-foot ceilings, six fireplaces, an elaborate arch over a large window seat; original woodwork everywhere; a small, curved hobbit door to the kitchen. And the pièce de résistance? A floor-to-ceiling Palladian window on the landing of the main staircase. I have often joked that the house is like a very old, dear relative—very infirm, needs a lot of love and attention, but part of our lives, nonetheless. The Hobbit Door leading out of the kitchen I always wanted a house like this, having grown up in a 1970s suburban Colonial. But be careful what you wish for. Even during the final walk-through, I could see through my rose-colored glasses that there was a lot of work to be done, but that long arched window in the staircase said, “don’t look at that old wallpaper, look at me!” Maybe I should have examined that window. But more about that later. Most old house problems do not simply disappear with paint. Still, we found ways to deal with some of the larger issues, such as new roof and cedar siding. Termites and wisteria had pulled down the entire back deck, which ran around 20 feet from the side porch to a door off the playroom (or parlor). Without the deck, this useless parlor door leads to outside air. But we just keep it locked and call it the Door to Nowhere. In any case, we took care of the termites after we experienced a swarm in the basement. There is a little powder room on the first floor, a brick broom closet-sized structure that was added onto the house in 1913 by the second owner, an elderly woman. How do we know she was elderly? I have inconveniently forgotten the answer. Complete with pull-chain, leaking toilet, we hired a plumber immediately, but he left after a few hours, saying the H-word: Haunted. We laughed at this. To this day, I wish I had asked him what he meant. But that company never returned my calls. But of course, there were no ghosts. No such thing as ghosts. The round wall in the hallway where our son Ben maybe saw the Little Blue Ghost But the first time our favorite babysitter came over was also the last, unfortunately. I tried to find out what she had seen, what had happened, but all she did was shake her head. Then, my youngest started waking me up every night telling me there was a “little blue ghost” scaring him. I was convinced it was somehow the blue fireplug outside his window. But one night I wandered over to the round wall by the back stairs and something kind of flew by. Was it a car light? Sure, it was! But there was no window there to reflect a car light. Every now and then we hear loud clicks at night. My husband Ned, firmly grounded in science, computers, and all things nerdy, reported that these sounds are just the window latches opening on the Palladian window at the top of the staircase. Neither one of us discusses why this would happen. Creaks are one thing, but actual latches being flung open? On a window that is painted shut? Our son Max standing by the Old Lady’s window Still, when it happens, my husband says, “It’s just the window latches,” and I reply, “I’m sure it’s fine.” The wind, an old house, settling, shifting–there’s always a good reason for these things. Silly old house. Except for that morning, about 20 years ago, shortly after we’d moved in. My husband was awake before I was and had gone downstairs to make coffee. He glanced up at the staircase and saw a woman there. He thought it was me. Except for the fact that I don’t wear large hoopskirts. He looked again and she was gone. It’s one thing if I had been the one to see her. I’m the emotional, dreamy, believer-in-astrology member of the family. But it did not happen to me. It happened to Ned. We just kind of laughed about it but was a whistling-past-the-graveyard kind of laugh. I could maybe still shrug it off. But there was that beautiful evening recently when I was sitting on the sunny side porch and I heard someone on the sidewalk below say, “Door to Nowhere.” I got chills and ran outside to meet the person who knew this strange thing about my house. The Pumpkin Room door yawning open, beckoning It turned out she was the former owner’s daughter. She had grown up there. My excitement rose up like balloons as she described what it was like living there. The Door to Nowhere. The strange room off the upstairs bathroom—her uncle had nicknamed it The Pumpkin Room—but no one knew why. It was understood that if she was naughty, she’d be sent to The Pumpkin Room. In my family there is no such threat; we merely try to keep it closed but of course it pops open every so often. And then I asked the woman, “Did you ever see—” We both said it at once: “The Old Lady.” “I never saw her,” the woman told me, “but my brother did.” “My husband did.” We thought about this in silence for a moment, and then I took her on a tour of the house to show her what we had done to it so far. She was duly impressed. I could have ended up feeling completely freaked out, but somehow, I was not. I felt—the only way to describe it is—special. Honored? Because after all, if there is some presence, she is benign. She merely wants the big window open. Well, so do I. And she visits the Pumpkin Room. She thumps a little, clicks a little. I can live with that. Because whether ours is just a finicky, needy old house, or we have a ghost who is finicky and needy, she is our finicky old house ghost and well, sigh, I am never going to sell it. Especially now that I’ve gone public with the whole H-word thing. The back of the house today, looking benign Susan Senator is an author, blogger and journalist living in the Boston area with her husband Ned Batchelder. They have three sons, the oldest of whom is 36 and has profound autism. Ms. Senator is the author of Making Peace With Autism as well as The Autism Mom’s Survival Guide and Autism Adulthood: Insights and Creative Strategies for a Fulfilling Life. A journalist since 1997, she has a column in Psychology Today, and she has published many pieces on parenting, autism, and living happily, in journals like the New York Times, Time magazine, the Washington Post, the Boston Globe, and NPR. Senator has appeared as a guest on “The Today Show,” MSNBC, ABC News, PBS, NPR and CNN.

By Marion Blank, Ph.D. / New York City An unidentified student stands in front of an archway at Cambridge University in 1957 (Photo by © Hulton-Deutsch Collection/CORBIS/Corbis via Getty Images) The year was 1957—a time when ocean liners, not airplanes, were the way one crossed the Atlantic. It was September and I was on a French ship that departed from New York, heading for England. After reaching our destination, we disembarked and continued the journey on a small boat (known as a tender). It would take us to a port on the coast of southern England. As would prove to be a much-repeated experience, a dreary rain was steadily falling. My journey was almost over. The final stop would be Cambridge where I planned to spend my “post-grad gap year.” The bleak scene added to the trepidation I was feeling about my ability to handle the “adventure” I had planned. The author at a family wedding in the 1950s Unfortunately, my first weeks in England only added to my fears. Along with the rain that didn’t seem to stop, my living quarters were far from inviting. When I entered the one-room apartment I had rented (while still on my home side of the Atlantic), it just raised more doubts as to whether I could cope. One of my first questions to my landlord was “Where is the fridge?” The answer was, “There isn’t one. But not to worry. There’s also no heat, so you don’t need a fridge.” Then miraculously, these concerns fell into the background, to be replaced by an incredible world I hadn’t realized existed. Ultimately, it provided a set of experiences that changed my life and my priorities. An Amazing Lack of Bureaucracy At the time my odyssey started, my encounters with books like Dickens' Oliver Twist and plays like My Fair Lady led me to see Britain as a land with rigid social expectations. That view, which was quite accurate, stood in marked contrast to the mobility that characterized the U.S. at that time. Still as I was to discover, the close encounters of everyday life yielded a different, more nuanced picture. Newnham College in the 1950s when the author attended there Among the unexpected experiences were ones involving Anna Freud, the woman thought to be Sigmund Freud’s favorite child. Although her famous father was attuned to seeing the horrendous forces that exist in human beings, he felt certain that Germany was too civilized to succumb to the evils that Hitler might produce. Guided by those mistaken beliefs, the Freud family stayed in Vienna until it was almost too late. When the danger could no longer be denied, the family fled Austria and went to London. There, Anna established what would become the world-famous Hampstead Child Therapy Clinic. At that point, Sigmund was too ill to work, but Anna was young, full of ideas and far more down-to-earth than her father. She devoted herself to helping children whose lives had been devastated by World War II. Her work was admired but also controversial. For example, she brought in teachers and caregivers to participate in the therapeutic process—a practice that challenged the traditional patient-doctor model. She also insisted that the clinic be free of any signs that indicated it might be an institution. She set it up to be as close to a home setting as possible. It was a great idea then; it continues to be a great idea now—despite the fact that it is typically ignored. The clinic’s location in London was only about an hour from Cambridge. Deciding to pursue a faint possibility, I wrote Anna Freud a letter asking if I could participate in any of the center’s work. Her response came within a few days, and it welcomed my attending their weekly staff meetings. The ease of the process seems unimaginable in today’s times. My acceptance at the Hampstead Clinic was not unique. The process of entering the doctoral program at Cambridge was almost as smooth. This was to be my “fun, unpressured” year and I had not expected to be a student. But to help with expenses, I got a job as a research assistant for Derek Russell Davis, a kind and caring psychiatrist. He was a man who, far ahead of his time, offered strong support to women in research. He encouraged me to become a doctoral student. He ultimately became my Ph.D. supervisor and the central figure in helping me get a prestigious Pinsent-Darwin Fellowship. Poet Sylvia Plath attended Newnham College at Cambridge from 1955-1957 on a Fulbright scholarship It’s difficult, in today’s problem filled world of student debt, to believe the opportunities that were available during my student days. Prior to Margaret Thatcher’s tenure as Prime Minister of Great Britain, the universities—including Cambridge—were effectively free. So, along with not having to pay tuition, I received financial support. The support was seen as one of the most effective means for creating an educated and productive population. Though it seems long-distant history, for many years, a similar view prevailed in the United States. It ended when Thatcher’s close colleague Ronald Reagan became president and convinced Americans that the "subsidization of intellectual curiosity" had to be ended. As I reflect back on those pre-Reagan/Thatcher years, I continue to be astounded by the simplicity that marked my British experience. Many decades have passed since that time, and I am not familiar with the current situation and its many post-Brexit complications. But for me, the time period was nothing short of miraculous. At the same time, the absence of creature comforts such as heat and refrigeration became a blip that didn’t matter all that much. Women and the University As with so much of life in England, the story of women in Cambridge begins hundreds of years ago. It started in 1209 when the University of Oxford–the preeminent educational institution at the time--went into voluntary suspension following a scandal involving the murder of a local woman. Its scholars dispersed to many places including Cambridge University. It was, of course, a totally male establishment and it stayed that way until 1948, when it became the last British university to admit women. When I arrived in the 1950s, it had 25 colleges—23 for men and two for women. That imbalanced number was still perceived as a threat. Hundreds and even thousands of male students engaged in aggressive, noisy protests against the distaff side of humanity entering their turf. By the time I was there, there were some unanticipated advantages to that state of affairs. The university kept its eyes on the students by requiring them, in the evening, to wear gowns – like the ones worn at graduation. The rule applied to woman as well as men. But the guards who enforced the practice didn’t seem to envision that women could be students. So, even though I never put on my gown, I was never stopped. Primatologist Jane Goodall as a doctoral student in Africa During my time in Cambridge, there were only two women in the psychology department. One was me; the other was Jane Goodall. We also happened to be in Newnham, the same college, but we never met during our Cambridge years. She was off in Africa, laying the foundation for her ground-breaking work. In keeping with the flexibility of the university, her acceptance had been unique. She did not have a bachelor’s degree. However, she did have the backing of Louis Leakey, the world-famous paleoanthropologist. That was all she needed. In describing the situation, she wrote in 2018, “He took me despite my lack of academic credentials — or even because of them as he wanted someone with a mind uncluttered by the reductionist scientific thinking of the time.” The Lectures My undergraduate days in the U.S. were marked by courses one attended several hours each week. Aside from science labs, most courses involved three to four hours of lectures each week. The situation in Cambridge was far different. Each academic year involved three eight-week terms based on the Anglican Church calendar. They were Michaelmas (autumn), Lent (spring), and Easter (summer). The non-lab courses generally involved only a one-hour lecture each week. When I first became aware of this system. I was surprised, and with a touch of American arrogance (that I didn’t think I possessed), quickly deemed “our system” to be superior. My view of this matter did not last long. It changed after I sat in on the lectures of a few of the major faculty. The English readily acknowledge their lack of ease with what is commonly referred to as “the gift of gab;” that is, the ability to be a smooth talker who easily wins people over. However, when it comes to lectures and formal presentations, they cannot be surpassed. One day, I decided to attend the lecture of an historian who was presenting the case for how Cambridge became a powerhouse. At the outset, Oxford was the leading center; Cambridge was in a different league—small, unimportant and underfunded. Then matters changed when King Henry VIII found himself facing a problem. He wanted to divorce the first of what would become six wives, an action that was unacceptable to the Catholic Church. At the time, the faculty and senior members of Cambridge University were predominantly clergymen. So, Henry went to them with a “deal.” If they could come up with an acceptable religious rationale for his obtaining an annulment to end the marriage, he would ensure the prosperity of the University. The clergymen seemed to have no qualms about the morality of the issue they were facing. As the saying goes, “the rest is history.” It’s not surprising to find that a single personal experience can have profound effects. But, like the dropping of the atom bomb, the experience generally has to be unique and dramatic. What is surprising are the major effects that can follow from seemingly unremarkable experiences like the historian’s lecture. It led me to an “ aha moment” that set me on a multi-decade quest to transform the way subjects such as history and science are taught. Instead of being presented as boring, abstract facts, we needed to capture their potential to be phenomenally interesting. That led me to focus a major part of my career into revamping classrooms that turn that potential into reality. Graduation As in other universities, graduation at Cambridge is the final step once a doctoral candidate has completed all the requirements. In many places, the appearance of the graduate is optional and there are no significant consequences for those who forgo the ceremony. That was not the case at Cambridge. A human body had to be present for the degree to be awarded. That body, however, did not have to be the person graduating. There was the option of paying a substitute to stand in for the actual candidate. I had no idea what the ceremony entailed, but there was no way I was going to pay someone to take my place. That decision led me to participate in a scene that could have been part of a movie extravaganza. The ceremony took place at a regular faculty meeting in a large, prestigious hall. A series of issues—all presented in Latin—were raised for the faculty to consider and then vote on. The only words I could make out were in Latin: “placere” (meaning agree) and “non placere” (meaning disagree). The scene was like an ancient Roman market with lots of bargaining and heckling going on. Then, the man who appeared to be the lord of the session and his aide, both in the finest regalia, went to center stage. The aide, speaking in Latin, would bellow out that he had a doctoral candidate to bring forth. When it was my turn, after being granted permission, he led me to the center stage where I was to carry out a set of instructions. They included my having to kneel down and place my hands on the lord’s knees. It was emphasized that when I walked away, just as is required when leaving the monarch, I had to walk backwards. That ensured that the lord would only see my face—and never my backside. Then the show ended. It was a marvelous production. Weird, extravagant, anachronistic—but absolutely marvelous. A Final Reflection During my years at Cambridge, I was not yet familiar with the word “serendipity;” I was also unfamiliar with the idea it represented. It never occurred to me that life could bring happy accidents that miraculously resulted in good fortune. It was only when I returned to the “real world,” that I realized the many encounters I had experienced with that remarkable phenomenon and how fortunate I had been to have had this period at an ideal time in my life. Dr. Marion Blank is a developmental psychologist with a specialization in language-both spoken and written. Her research and clinical work over the course of five decades has led to her recognition as an international authority in literacy, especially for children with developmental challenges. She has held academic positions at Columbia University, Rutgers Medical School, the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, and as a Visiting Professor at Monash University, Hebrew University, and the University of London. As the creator and director of Columbia’s Light on Literacy Program, she pioneered innovative, evidence-based approaches to teach reading to children with autism—including those who were thought to be non-verbal. Dr. Blank is the recipient of numerous national and international awards for her contributions to education and child development. Her new book, Brilliance Unleashed, will be published in June 2026.

By Sienna Sachs Beck / New York City The author outside of the United Nations on April 24. She was there with her MUN delegation to attend a special meeting of the General Assembly commemorating the 40th anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster. In late October, 2024, I got a one-sided, large-font permission slip telling me to go to Room 324 during my lunch period. I knew what it was. I’d known even before I’d been at the school. My junior high school, Booker T. Washington (MS 54), is quite well known for its MUN program. That’s Model United Nations, an educational program with hundreds of thousands of participants worldwide. [Editor: UN sources have cited more than 200,000 annually, while some educational estimates put participation above 400,000.] Here, we call ourselves MUNchkins, because our conference day breakfast is six dozen Dunkin donuts. We function way differently than your average MUN, though. MUN is not a club. It’s not a team. The word to describe it is a commitment. All 60 of us get to school at 7:45 a.m. every single day, whereas normal school starts at 8:40 a.m. Each week, we give up three of our five lunch periods to talk, debate, and work. We give up many of our weekends for writing and conferences. It’s the best (and most time-consuming thing!) that’s ever happened to me. We begin the year by focusing on current events and seeing where the flow of conversation takes us. It is the most genuinely open space in which I’ve ever been privileged enough to participate. It’s the kind of place where, stimulated by the moment, you can slip up and say something so morally wrong, and people will yell at you while giving you hugs and tissues. True story! It’s the one place I can share all of my opinions and not be censored in any way. Around this time, our MUN newsletter also opens up. It’s called The Gazette, and it’s shared via Google Docs to all of us daily. Towards the middle of MUN, the eighth grade is divided into several groups. Each group is presented with a current or historical dilemma. These include situations like the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the current state of India, the situation in Nepal or the fall of the U.S.S.R. Once a slideshow is created and research has been done in extraordinary depth, the topics are presented, pondered, ranked and voted on by the entire delegation. The highest-ranked topic becomes the one that the delegation pours its heart and soul into for at least two to three months. My 7th grade year in MUN, it was El Salvador, and the two sides of the debate were pro-Salvadoran President Bukele and anti-Bukele. The position papers were over 25 pages long. This year, it’s been the Democratic Republic of the Congo–with a focus on the cobalt mining methods, sales, and child labor rates, and foreign-owned mines there. We spend a few months doing intense research and debating with each other, which often leads into screaming matches that end in hugs. At the end of that period of time, two days in the end of March or early April, we stay two hours after school and present the position papers, usually extremely professional and long! Oreos are provided–a necessity. Once this part of MUN is over, we begin preparations for our conferences. Here is where traditional MUN starts–we are assigned a country, a committee, and a topic. In the four conferences I have been to, my countries have been Nigeria, Ukraine, Colombia, and St. Vincent and the Grenadines Islands. Before writing the papers, we spend hours and hours on end reading from websites, collecting information on our topics. Once we have a deep enough understanding, we begin to write the position papers. These range anywhere from one to ten-plus pages, but this is just the first draft. Then, we get comments on our papers from our MUN advisor. Usually, we require anywhere from four to twelve drafts until it has everything it could need in it. These are anywhere from 2-12 pages. Then, we create our bibliographies, which have a minimum of 35 sources. At this point, we are super close to our conference, the climax and ending of MUN. By two weeks before conference weekend, we are reading opening speeches in front of everybody on the delegation. We also read update papers from our dais, preparing conference note templates, as well as any other background information one might need. Then it’s conference weekend. You know how they say time flies? I say that time teleports. One moment it’s there, the next moment it’s gone. The conference weekend this year was from April 24-26, taking place in the Millenium Hilton, right across the street from the United Nations. We all gather from 7:15-8 a.m., at the Time Warner Center in Colombus Circle. Dunkin’ Donuts are served, hence, MUNchkins. We all assemble and talk and argue and have final checks to make sure we have everything for the conference. Once everyone is accounted for, we take the subway to Grand Central Station, then walk to the U.N., where we hand out IDs and change into our conference shoes. Then, we go to the Millenium Hilton nearby for the conference. The conference itself lasts anywhere from two to eight hours per day for three days. It consists of moderated caucuses (specific amounts of time with a specific speaker’s time on a specific topic), unmoderated caucuses (kind of like free time), bloc forming (forming alliances to start working on working papers), voting (which draft resolution should be the one of the committee session), and amending (kind of like compromising the resolution for a final draft). At the end, awards are presented, but the reason our delegation goes is for the experience, not for the certificates. The weekend after the conference, the delegation goes to the Gemini Diner for a last lunch. Afterwards, we all go back to the Peace Form One statue across from the U.N and say our heartfelt goodbyes to the delegation. Usually there are a lot of tears. This year was no exception. It’s the delegation’s last formal goodbye. M.U.N. has a lot of special events. This year, Columbia Prof. Mahmood Mamdani (the Mayor’s father) paid a visit to our school and talked to us about his Ugandan background and the history of Africa in terms of the effects of imperialism and the misconduct of local elites. Last year, Columbia Prof. Jeffrey Sachs (my grandfather) came in and talked about…everything, really. Model U.N. is one of the best things that’s happened to me. It’s an open space that won’t target me for saying the weirdest, most not-true things in the world. I am eternally grateful to it. Sienna Sachs Beck, 13, will be entering 9th grade this fall at the High School for American Studies at Lehman College. Although she enjoys all kinds of writing (except for research papers), her favorite form of all time is poetry. An active environmentalist, Sienna especially loves writing poetry that raises awareness about global changes. And best–or worst–of all, Sienna enjoys doing Eka Pada Sirsasana (her favorite yoga pose) to excess, even while writing her next piece.

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on June 13, 2026 The Donald J. Trump and Jeffrey Epstein Memorial Reading room came to the nation’s capital just in time for Trump’s 80th birthday. Brought to us by the non-profit Institute for Primary Facts, the “reading room,” actually an exhibition, was in Washington, DC for five days—Tuesday, June 9 through Trump’s birthdate, June 14). With luck, this traveling exhibition will help keep the Epstein files in the public eye despite the president’s antic attempts at distraction—like his cage fight on the White House lawn—Trump’s birthday present to himself, paid for by you and me, the taxpayers. The Institute’s exhibit is free and open to the public, though one must reserve a spot for a specific time and bring ID, etc. I made my visit on Friday, and this is what I saw: The Main Floor Immediately after entry, a wall to the right sets out the timeline of the Trump-Epstein history, beginning with Ivana Trump’s rape allegation in 1989 and ending with Trump’s 2024 conviction on 34 felony counts of falsifying business records to hide hush money payments made before the 2016 presidential election. The wall setting out a time-line of allegations and court actions related to Donald Trump and Jeffrey Epstein The beginning of the timeline. Donald J Trump's 1994 comment on his baby daughter Tiffany's "attributes" The end of the timeline but, sadly, not the end of the story Bookcases lining the walls on the first floor contain 3437 bound volumes of Epstein files, 800 pages in each volume. There are 2.5 million more pages that the Department of Justice has not released. Two of the five wall sections containing the Epstein volumes On an empty shelf at the end of the exhibit of volumes released thus far. The Institute is providing room for the rest--if DOJ ever releases them According to Straight Arrow News, David Garrett, a founder of the Institute, has said its goal is to open “immersive, traveling museum exhibits designed to provide accessible, fact-based explorations of the foundational elements of American democracy.” Garrett told Straight Arrow, that it’s hard “to have context, and it’s hard to understand the source, and you don’t know if it’s fake or it’s real, and it’s just sort of this blob of information that numbs you, right? This is the opposite of that.” That said, only victims, their lawyers, law enforcement, members of Congress, and credentialed reporters are permitted to open and read the volumes. The general public is not permitted to do so because, Garrett told Straight Arrow, “We found the names of some survivors that have publicly asked to be redacted, and some Jane Does that are still not public.” He added, “The docs were riddled with them.” That might prompt one to ask: what’s the point of a so-called reading room publicizing the files if the public cannot read them? However, the public does have access to the files on-line. The value of the exhibit is that physically seeing the entirety of the volumes makes the enormity of what they hold real in a way that can’t be shrugged aside in the way that browsing on social media might. The Mezzanine For me, the most powerful part of the exhibit was on the mezzanine between the first and second floors. There, the Institute has hung several paintings by the visual artist Maria Farmer. In 1996, Ms. Farmer filed the first criminal complaint of sexual assault against Epstein with the FBI, for sexual abuse of her 16-year-old sister. It appears that the FBI did nothing with that information. Some years later, while doing an article on Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell, Vanity Fair interviewed Farmer and her sister but conveniently left their story out of the magazine's published article. Thus, the Farmers found themselves failed by both the government and the media. If a picture is worth a thousand words, Maria Farmer’s paintings express it all. Below are a few samples. (Note: There is a bit of unavoidable shadow on them, a victim of the available lighting and use of a cell phone. Mea Culpa.) La Lune. The Lady Ghislaine The Hermit. (Hiding from Epstein/Maxwell) Needs no caption--or title Maria Farmer has also done a series of pastel chalk portraits of the publicly known victims. The second floor On the second floor of the reading room, the Institute simply set out 1400 candles to signify 1400 victims--including 1200 known plus additional candles to signify those not yet identified. A 1400 candle tribute to Epstein's victims The Institute also included a high wall on which visitors could leave notes expressing their feelings and reactions. The wall of visitor reactions and reflections Some samples from the wall: In addition to leaving notes, visitors were given an opportunity to write a birthday message on Institute-supplied post cards, which the Institute stated it planned to deliver to the White House. Regardless of whether Trump reads them, perhaps the number and sentiments expressed in them—if covered by the press—can counter Trump’s efforts to distract from the Epstein scandal with his many versions of bread and circuses. The Trump-Epstein memorial reading room previously was installed at a gallery in lower Manhattan. After its time here in DC, Garrett hopes to take it on to five or six more states this year. For security reasons, the Institute does not announce in advance what venue they will travel to next. But keep an eye out. Your state and city might be next. Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider. Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com. In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn, and The Three Jessies. More on Seigel can be found at www.jessieseigel.com.

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. Many people look forward to retirement, the golden years, with great anticipation. I have heard some say they have long wanted more time for hobbies and travel. They express the desire for the freedom to do whatever they want. It all seems so exciting to finally reach that stage in life when you envision yourself resting from all the pressures and responsibilities of work life. It can feel like the world has just opened to new possibilities and you can shop in a calorie-free candy store with no budget. But few people talk about the shift in self-identity. What happens when you separate from the title you carried while you were working? When you are no longer an auto executive or a banker, who are you? Pondering a question like “who am I?” is an existential mind-bender that generally emerges around the onset of puberty and follows us through our teens and into our twenties. Along the journey, people in our orbits provide feedback in the form of reflective mirroring. “My teacher tells me I’m smart, I must be smart.” “My friends say I make them laugh; I must be funny.” “You’re brave; you’d make a great firefighter.” The development of self-image, how we view ourselves, requires a lot of outside input and years of experience that inform us of who we are. The creation of self-image is a fundamental building block that sets the stage for life choices, such as which career paths to consider, or what friends and life partners to choose. It is only with decades of experimentation and life experiences that we hone a solid image of ourselves, one that feels honest and authentic and is identifiable to people who know us. During our productive, working years, for example, we may be recognized as a teacher, an engineer, a scientist, a community activist. We are inclined to adopt the characteristics which are stereotypically associated with the job titles, and others see us in these ways. So, what happens when we retire and we are no longer functioning in the role we once had? Those roles provided a sense of self that had been a large part of “who am I?” Now, separated from the labels that we attached to our self-image, the struggle to find what’s left about us is very real. Often, when the euphoria of initial release from the rat race of the working world dissipates, those of us whose self-images were tightly entangled with our work roles, can become lost and depressed. Signs of this include watching hours of daytime TV, playing computer games endlessly, or withdrawal from family and friends. This kind of depression is situational; it’s a reaction to a significant change in life. It is very real and very disconcerting. Grief is another common reaction to retirement, especially when there was high job satisfaction. The losses of a title, a routine, the work environment, work friends, and feelings of accomplishment can be staggering. We cannot swiftly replace all that a job has meant to us. There must be a period of adjustment between career life and retirement. When the excitement of starting a new chapter passes, the feelings of loss can rise to the top and becoming consuming. Most of the time depression and grief are temporary. But they don’t always go away by themselves. You must counteract the low feelings before they spiral downward and you feel like you’ve completely lost control. Rewards inherent in a gratifying work life must be replaced, but you shouldn’t rush into everything all at once. A common piece of advice offered to the newly retired is to take a breath before jumping into new routines and commitments. The sentiment is that newly retired people need some time to say good-bye to the old image and an entire life stage. Eventually, people see themselves in their new lives and begin to identify differently as perhaps a quilter, a crafter, a sailor, a home chef. Fresh interests give retirees an opportunity to meet new people and develop significant relationships. As delighted as you might be with your new friends, there is usually something precious missing: New friends didn’t know you in your old life and in ways you once identified yourself. They don’t picture you as a college dean, or the president of your own company, or the head of a multi-national team of problem solvers. In fact, your younger self is nonexistent in the eyes of people who didn’t know you before retirement. Sharing stories of your former life helps new friends get a full picture of who you are and what your life has been all about. The walk down memory lane is a chance for you to visit a younger version of yourself. If you are transitioning into the retirement stage of life, or are not quite satisfied with your life post-retirement, consider five areas of focus: Find a new raison d’être, a reason for being. Consider that you have one life and are still living it on this side of the dirt. How do you want to make your life worth living? Perhaps you would like to help raise your grandchildren or run for a political office. Give your life meaning! Be creative. Think outside the box. Get your hands in the dirt or paint. Make things, grow things, work on that invention you have been dreaming of taking to Shark Tank. Be adventurous. Step outside your comfort zone and try new things. Travel to places you have not previously visited. Conquer the fears that once stopped you from imagining yourself confidently enrolling in classes or learning to speak a foreign language. Involve yourself in community. Staying connected with people is super important to longevity. Finding communities of people who are like-minded and who share your values and interests can provide comfort and personal growth. In the years ahead, you will enjoy this antidote to loneliness. Give back. Volunteering is one of the most gratifying experiences for retirees, particularly because you can bring your wisdom and expertise to places in your community that will appreciate your gifts. This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients, working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operations. She is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative, and the organizer of Feeding Morgan Hill. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs. NancyFishmanPhD.com ForgottenHarvest.org

By Debra Perron / Calgary, Alberta My family and I live in often sunny, sometimes chilly Calgary, more than 2,000 miles northwest of New York. Located near the Rocky Mountains, our city has a population of over 1.4 million, Here, as in most places in Canada, being called an American has become the worst insult a Canadian can dump upon a fellow resident. Quiet, peaceful, generally non-gun-toting Canada– it is a polite (usually), kind (mostly), hockey-loving (always) nation. I have lived my life as an American citizen in Canada. Growing up in Sarnia, a Canadian border town, I saw that Canadians often end their sentences with "eh". I saw that my American parents had "an accent"... my father said "RUF", while my friends more "Canadianly" referred to a house covering as a "ROOF". But those were the biggest differences back then between the Canadian and American cultures for me. And truly, I do not recall any negativity from either country until the U.S. lost its collective mind, and re-elected Donald Trump as President. I never felt I needed to hide my citizenship from anyone here in Canada...until the President of the United States unilaterally decreed last year that America needed to own Greenland, and Canada should become the 51st State. Suddenly, I found myself avoiding discussing my place of birth, and chanting "Elbows up. “ Elbows up” traditionally meant “be ready to defend yourself” or “stand your ground.” It comes from hockey, where players would raise their elbows to protect themselves or fight back. In today’s Canada, though, it has also become a slogan meaning resistance, toughness, and national pride. My (Canadian) husband and I now actively shop Canadian labels at the grocery store, and as we saw our neighbourhood (yes, I know, you spell it "neighborhood"!) peppered with Canadian symbols, we put a Canadian flag in our kitchen window. It's not about hating Americans. It is about Canadians holding tight to an identity that feels increasingly under threat from an orange man who believes he should be king. This does not mean Canadians never debate immigration or other important national policy. But the tone of that debate matters. There is still civil discourse in this country. Canada experiences natural disasters–we've seen our share of floods, wildfires, and the melting of polar ice caps. But Trump's battle against windmills has become a sad national joke, and it brings Canadians together more firmly against our neighbour to the south with respect to climate denial. There is a genuine fear among Canadians that the U.S. is presently led by an uneducated, ineffective businessman, who ignores clear evidence of the need to protect our environment. While Canada is not free from political polarization, the majority of Canadians expect government officials to work across the aisle. Because of this, those who say they want an uncompromising, winner-takes-all approach in politics are often described as "too American"– a warning, not a compliment. That being said, Canadians do identify with some item that are 100 percent of and for this country. Canada's national symbols tell a story that is practical, quirky, and if I may say, typically Canadian. We do not rally around the powerful symbolism of eagles or lions. Canada treasures the beaver, a buck-toothed rodent. The beaver's industrious nature and landscape-transforming abilities reflect Canadian values of hard work and adaptation. Beavers represent the foundations upon which Canada was built. And beavers are kinda cute. And then there's The Timbit–a donut hole that captures Canadian hearts. It was a simple product innovation in 1976, when Tim Horton’s launched Timbits as a way to use leftover donut dough, transforming what could have been waste into a national treasure. The Timbit represents Canada's ability to elevate a simple, unpretentious thing to iconic status. There's no explanation required when a Canadian orders a Timmy's "Double Double" (Tim Horton's coffee with two creams and two sugars) and "a Timbit Sixpack.” Canadians use the terms so naturally that they forget they're not universal. The Double-Double is actually referenced in the Canadian Oxford Dictionary, though most Americans still need a quick translation Canadians are famously polite, but Americans often find their apologizing a bit excessive. A Canadian might say sorry if someone else bumps into them, if asking a question, or even just for sharing space. This habit runs so deep that the Province of Ontario passed a law in 2009 stating that an apology doesn't count as an admission of guilt in court. Ask a Canadian how far away a place is, and they'll likely say "about two hours" instead of giving an actual distance. It makes sense in a country where long drives between cities are the norm, but Americans find it annoyingly vague. Americans want to know if it's 50 or 150 miles, while Canadians only care how long they'll be driving. It's even more confusing since Canada uses kilometers officially but measures travel in time, creating a system that works here, but befuddles travelers! Canadians have a strict No-Shoes-Indoors Rule that many Americans find a bit much. My American parents never got used to that. Canadians see wearing shoes inside anyone's home as downright rude, no matter how clean the shoes may be. The habit began for practical reasons, since snow/ salt/ slush is an actual Canadian season. Personally, in our home. the choice of shoes or no shoes is left up to our guests, but I'd wager that most Canadians (and now we too) slip off shoes at the front door. So, here it is in a nutshell: We live in Canada, which is part of North America. We accept that the Gulf of Mexico is NOT the Gulf of America. Canadians are NOT Americans. Wind turbines do NOT kill birds. If Trump and his minions would just go away, I do believe that we could get back to being civil neighbours/neighbors again, with renewed cross-border shopping, increased tourism without fear of ICE reprisal, and successful cooperation between our countries to save our planet together. So, Dear United States of America, soon you will be celebrating your 250th Anniversary, celebrating no longer having a king. Accordingly, anything we can do to assist in the exit of your present ‘king wannabe’, just let us know. We’ll bring the Timbits. The author and her husband Steve Perron Debra is happily retired in Alberta, Canada, with her husband, Steve and their dog Keita. She stays in touch with family and friends who still reside in the U.S., and keeps a spare room available in her home for anyone who needs an escape from the chaos in Trumpland. She buys local, supports kindness, and looks forward to visiting wondrous places in the United States…once Trump is exiled to join the penguins on McDonald Island.

By Andy Borowitz May 12, 2026 Andrew Caballero-Reynolds/AFP via Getty Images WASHINGTON (The Borowitz Report)—An awkward scene unfolded at Tuesday’s Cabinet meeting after JD Vance covered a seemingly unresponsive Donald J. Trump with a sheet. His eyes closed and head slumped forward, Trump had been motionless for over seven minutes before Vance gently shrouded him. “We have lost a great president and a great American,” said Vance, speaking to his colleagues from prepared remarks. “No one can hope to fill his Florsheims, but from this day forward I will strive to—” “Get away from me!” Trump bellowed as he threw off the sheet. “You’re the bastard who killed the Pope!”

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on May 13, 2026 Southern Poverty Law Center's civil rights memorial Our country has finally slammed through Alice’s looking glass. Evil is good. Good is evil. The Trump regime, which is backed by white supremacist extremists and in return backs them—even giving pardons to January 6 terrorists so they can continue to terrorize—has just indicted the Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC), claiming it secretly used its donors’ money to promote that extremism. The indictment alleges wire fraud, false statements and conspiracy to commit money launder in support of the activities SPLC publicly opposes. Specifically, the indictment claims that SPLC “secretly funneled more than $3 million in donated funds to individuals who were associated with various violent extremist groups including: the Ku Klux Klan; United Klans of America; Unite the Right; National Alliance; National Socialist Movement; Aryan Nations affiliated Sadistic Souls Motorcycle Club; National Socialist Party of America (American Nazi Party); and American Front.” The sliminess of this indictment is unspeakable. For those who are not familiar with SPLC, that organization has done more than any other, except perhaps the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), to make white supremacist hate groups pay legally for their actions. For decades, SPLC has tracked, infiltrated, and exposed violent hate groups across the nation. As early as the 1980s, while the federal government sat on its hands, SPLC brought civil suits against the Ku Klux Klan and Aryan Nations on behalf of their victims. Its win in one early case bankrupted the Alabama Klan, putting it out of business. Has SPLC, over the years, compensated informants who have infiltrated, attended extremist gatherings, provided them with internal documents, and reported to them on the activities of violent hate groups? Yes. But as former prosecutor, law professor, and MSNOW contributor Joyce Vance has written: Prosecutors have presented those facts as evidence that the SPLC enabled extremism, when in fact, they suggest the SPLC was just very good at executing its mission. Infiltrating criminal operations only works if the group is unaware that the source is cooperating with law enforcement, or in this case, a private entity collecting information. That part is obvious. And informants frequently continue participating in organizations while providing intelligence; that’s what makes them so valuable. This isn’t evidence of the SPLC’s ideological alignment with the hate groups it works to expose. It is the entire premise of undercover and intelligence operations. The SPLC has a long history of cooperating with and offering training to law enforcement agencies. Over the years, it has provided them information on the history, background, leaders and activities of far-right extremist groups. But this administration is in bed with right wing extremists. It is supported by them. It appears to employ them or those who are fellow travelers. So, is it any wonder, then, that Kash Patel’s FBI and Todd Blanche’s so-called Department of Justice (DOJ) would now target the SPLC? In response to the DOJ's indictment, SPLC has filed two motions. The first asks the court to address false statements by the government and to enforce rules prohibiting the government from making prejudicial statements outside of the court proceeding. The second motion points out the likelihood that DOJ’s false statements led to the indictment by grossly misleading the Grand Jury. One example cited by SPLC: The indictment repeatedly alleges the SPLC sought to promote the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia in August 2017 … Acting Attorney General Blanche said publicly that the government had ‘no information’ that ‘suggests that’ the SPLC ‘then turned around and shared what they learned with law enforcement’ from the informant program.' However, as Joyce Vance adroitly has pointed out, not only does SPLC's motion maintain that they did share what they learned with law enforcement, “they seem to have the receipts—the FBI’s Mobile, Alabama field office, the same office whose agents worked on the criminal indictment, received a 45-page intelligence product from SPLC before the rally.” In other words, Trump’s DOJ is adding SPLC to its malicious pursuit of spurious indictments against all opponents, already including Senator Mark Kelly, former FBI Director James Comey, and New York Attorney-General Letitia James. And, in the case of SPLC, bringing Trump’s tactic of projection—accusing his opponent of what he himself actually has done—to a new low. One must ask, what organization will be next--the Anti-Defamation League? The American Civil Liberties Union? It is likely that this sham prosecution will fail. But it constitutes yet another political abuse of power in the Trump regime's battle to silence any who oppose its reconstitution of a white supremacist state. Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider. Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com. In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn, and The Three Jessies. More on Seigel can be found at www.jessieseigel.com.

From The Tucker Carlson Show

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By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City & Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel Stan Fischler grew up in Brooklyn, as did Lydia Wilen. They met briefly in their borough in 1963 when Stan, a newspaper reporter interviewed Lydia, a comedy writer for stand-up comedian Jackie Mason. Then they reconnected, this time romantically, about 60 years later. If you read their original story, The Maiden and the Maven, in the March 11 issue of the Insider, you’ll know all about this modern fairy tale. So where do Stan and Lydia go from here? Back to Brooklyn comparing memories of their lives in the 1940s. To know what life was like during Stan’s formative years in Williamsburg, Lydia started reading his 2021 memoir, Tales of Brooklyn. It had a unique effect on her, bringing back long-forgotten flashbacks from her formative years in East Flatbush. Stan has had a love affair with the New York City subway system, starting when he was knee-high to a cockroach. (Who knew from grasshoppers in Brooklyn?) And so, his passion is honored by having him take up most of this article as he and his grandson go for an historic ride on the subway. Lydia’s very different subway experience is after Stan’s amorous account. Riding the Rails with Stan The Q Line originally was known as the Brighton Express. In its own speedy way, it was the flagship run of the BMT Lines.. In Manhattan it ran from 57th Street station then south, over the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. When my 11-year-old grandson, Ezra Fischler, came to New York City his Zeyde (Yiddish for grandpa) thought it would be a good idea to take him for a subway ride from Manhattan to Coney Island. Being that Ez is from Portland, Oregon, he couldn’t imagine how thrilled I was that I got a “Let’s do it” faster than a Spaldeen bounces off a stoop. We had to board the Q train, which used to have a more romantic name when I was a lad. In my knickers-wearing days of the early 1940s it was known as the Brighton Beach Express. Final stop: Coney Island. (What could be better than that?) Seeing that his grandpappy was all pumped up, Ezra asked that logical question: “Tell me, Zed, what should I be looking for and when?” Good question. I explained that after barreling downtown, our steep stainless steel 10-car behemoth would break out of the cavernous tunnel and climb to daylight as we roll over the Manhattan Bridge, and so it did. “Hey, Zeyde,” Ez chirped as two light beams from an oncoming Q train flashed by us en route to the other side of the Big Apple. The author and his grandson, Ezra, through the years “You’re now in Brooklyn where Zeyde grew up,” I point out as our Q dipped under Fulton Street, heading south toward Coney. “Watch how fast we go.” I could tell that Ez was digging it when the Q surfaced at Prospect Park, climbed from the open cut, up the hill, past the Avenue H station and sped to Coney. There was a lot to tell my grandson; I knew I’d never be able to get it all in. "When I was your age, Ez, the tracks were connected to one another," I explained, "and when the Brighton Express went real fast and it sounded like this (I pushed my tongue back and forth in my mouth) click-clack-click." Ez said he couldn't hear it. "Well, that's because they use welded rails now, so the ride is much smoother; but it took the fun out of the ride for your Zeyde." There was plenty more fun especially when the kid's optics turned wide as our Q screeched around the 90-degree curve over Brighton Beach Avenue and the Coney panorama greeted him. Ez knew in advance that we'd have no time for the amusements and had to turn around and make it back for family eats. An hour later, we returned to our Upper West Side apartment for dinner and the question that I couldn't wait to ask: "So, Ezra, how did you like the subway?" "I loved it." Then, a thoughtful pause: "But I kinda think I'd like it better in those days when the Q wasn't even a Q and you could hear that click-clack-click all the way to Coney!” Lydia’s Turn Five-year-old Lydia, safe on a seat in her own home Zip-Up-Your-Doo-Dah On one no-kindergarten day for five-year-old me, my mother and I went to the city, then took the IRT Lexington Avenue Line back to Brooklyn. We both got seats. From my end-seat, I was able to see part of the shielded door that my mother wasn’t able to see. As we were getting closer to our Eastern Parkway stop in Brooklyn, a man got on the train, stood in my line of sight and started waving something I had never seen before. Eww. It looked strange. I told my mother about it. As soon as I said, “…and it’s coming out of his pants,” my mother grabbed my arm, pulled me out of my seat and dragged me to the other side of the car, warning the passengers, “There's a man exposing himself near the door.” By the time the men in the car got to the door to catch the creep, the train was at a stop and the sicko got off (in more ways than one). Once we got home, I went to my little desk, took out my crayons and drew a picture of what I saw. I brought it over to my mother and said, “I want to take it to school for Show and Tell.” My mother had a conniption (fit). She sat me down and gave me a lesson in public lewdness and indecent exposure using her extensive anatomical terminology with descriptions like “down there.” Lesson learned. That didn't stop me from decades of subway travel and an appreciation for the great New York City subway system. Now, however, at this stage of my life…“TAXI!” The author, wondering "What's Uber's number?" Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on Personality, a celebrity-driven game show. Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a Nickelodeon series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from Reading Rainbow episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show, Sexually Speaking, plus three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . . Stan was gifted with a silver hockey stick when inducted into the USA Hockey Hall of Fame by the Islanders in 2020 Stanley I. Fischler (born March 31, 1932) is an American historian of hockey and the New York City subway, as well as a broadcaster, author of over 100 books, and professor. As a broadcaster with MSG, Fischler has won seven Emmy Awards (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stan_Fischler)

By Laurence Lerman / New York City SCREEN TIME This summer at the movies, the biggest titles know exactly what they are: familiar brands, carefully calibrated spectacle, movies engineered to dominate conversation before a ticket is sold. But moving alongside all that industrial certainty is something quieter and less predictable—smaller films, international titles, documentaries, and auteur-driven projects still operating on the possibility that audiences might want discovery alongside reassurance. This is a summer split between the industrial and the individual, between films built to perform and others reaching for something stranger, riskier, or more personal. The machine isn’t going anywhere—it’s too efficient, too polished, too embedded in the culture. But somewhere between the engineered and the unexpected is where the season becomes interesting: when a movie manages, however briefly, to sidestep expectations instead of merely fulfilling them. The Machine If the summer has a backbone, it’s here—films that arrive less as events than as inevitabilities. A new Spider-Man entry, Spider-Man: Brand New Day, doesn’t so much open as continue—another chapter in a story that has learned how to renew itself indefinitely. Toy Story 5 returns to a world that has already said its goodbyes to the series more than once, betting that familiarity can still feel like discovery. And Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu folds a streaming success back into the larger machinery of Star Wars. Pedro Pascal and his wide-eared apprentice investigate some nefarious goings-on in Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu What links these films isn’t just scale, but design. They are built to travel—to open everywhere, to translate instantly, to satisfy expectations that have been carefully cultivated over years, sometimes decades. The pleasure they offer is real, but it’s also calibrated: a balance of novelty and recognition, surprise and reassurance. These are movies that don’t need to ask for your attention; they assume it. And yet, for all their polish, there’s a quiet tension underneath. When everything is engineered to work, the question shifts from whether it succeeds to whether it surprises. The Branded Visionaries If the franchises represent the system at its most efficient, the auteurs occupy a more complicated space—still personal, still distinctive, but no longer entirely separate from the machinery around them. Steven Spielberg, Christopher Nolan, and James Cameron don’t just make movies; they arrive with built-in expectation, their names functioning less as credits than as guarantees. The mysteries of extraterrestrial life unfold for Emily Blunt in Disclosure Day Spielberg’s Disclosure Day, concerning the possible existence of extraterrestrial lifeforms, suggests a return to one of his oldest fascinations—how ordinary life absorbs the extraordinary. Nolan’s The Odyssey renders Homer’s classical tale with the scale and urgency of modern spectacle. Cameron, meanwhile, pivots—at least temporarily—from world-building immersion to a musical concert with the just-released Billie Eilish – Hit Me Hard and Soft: The Tour (Live in 3D), blending performance, technology, and authorship into a single, meticulously engineered experience. Matt Damon is Odysseus in Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of The Odyssey What unites the three projects is not style but stature. These are filmmakers who have turned authorship into brand—whose signatures are strong enough to sell a film before a single frame is seen. And yet even here, the line between the individual and the industrial begins to blur. The Outside Voices If Hollywood’s summer tends toward scale and certainty, the most intriguing counterprogramming often arrives from elsewhere—films that feel less engineered than discovered, less obligated to deliver than free to surprise. Pål Øie’s monster-thriller Kraken from Norway leans into regional specificity, environmental horrors and ancient mythology with the destructive awakening of a giant sea creature, while Kenji Tanigaki’s Hong Kong extravaganza The Furious suggests a more inventive and kinetic sensibility. These specialized genre films aren’t designed to open everywhere at once; they’re built to travel more slowly, gathering attention rather than commanding it. Bárbara Lennie (l.) and Victoria Luengo get real in Amarga Navidad And then there is Spain’s Pedro Almodóvar, whose tragicomedy Amarga Navidad concerning a director of commercials seeking a creativity infusion arrives with unmistakable authorship. Where Hollywood auteurs operate at the edge of the system, Almodóvar has long existed outside it entirely. If the biggest titles promise familiarity, these films offer something rarer: the possibility of not quite knowing what you’re going to get. The Reality Check And then there are the films that step outside the entire equation—no franchises, no fictional worlds, no pressure to scale. Just people, reputations, and the uneasy business of telling the truth about both. This summer’s documentaries arrive as a kind of corrective. E. Jean Carroll revisits her legal battle with Donald Trump in Ask E. Jean Ivy Meeropol’s Ask E. Jean revisits E. Jean Carroll, tracing her path from advice columnist to the central figure in her legal battle against Donald Trump, who has been ordered to pay Carroll more than $88 million in damages across two federal jury verdicts. (These awards have been upheld in appeals courts as Trump seeks to block payment.) Peter Asher: Everywhere Man follows musician/manager/producer Asher from Sixties British Invasion pop through several decades of behind-the-scenes influence. And Flag Day from married couple Andrew and Melissa Shea observes the small farming community of Three Oaks, Michigan, as residents prepare for the nation’s largest Flag Day parade, turning a patriotic ritual into a ground-level portrait of civic life, community identity, and the complicated bonds of American belonging. These titles aren’t trying to dominate a weekend or launch a universe. In a season built on precision and expectation, that lack of calculation can feel almost radical. The red, white, and blue is celebrated in Three Oaks, Mich. in Flag Day Laurence Lerman is a film journalist and a former editor of Video Business--Variety's digital media trade publication. Over the course of his four-decade career, he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major filmmaker working today, from Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and Clint Eastwood to Kathryn Bigelow, Bernardo Bertolucci, and Werner Herzog. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site DiscDish.com, the founder and curator of FilmShul.com, a multi-part presentation on the history of Hollywood and Jewish America, and a commentator on various 4K UHD and Blu-ray home entertainment releases.