Latest news with #immigrant
Yahoo
3 days ago
- General
- Yahoo
Highlights: St. Louis CITY SC 2-1 San Jose Earthquakes (MLS)
This man can't return to his homeland of Vietnam. Still, he's proud of his heritage Fifty years after the fall of Saigon, Dong Van Tran is grateful for the life he has in Canada. His journey to Saskatoon wasn't easy.
The Guardian
3 days ago
- Lifestyle
- The Guardian
Crossing the city-country divide: how do Australian farmers advocate for their industry in an urbanised world?
The view from my front lawn is paddocks and trees. From here, almost all I see is farmland and native bushland. A couple of years ago, I stood in this spot with a good friend, an immigrant from the UK. A smart, interested and interesting friend, and also a vegetarian. Which wouldn't be relevant except I'm a beef farmer, so for our friendship to prosper, this particular difference of opinion needs to be accommodated. Jess asked me what we would grow on our farm if we weren't growing livestock. The question initially confused me. Were we looking at the same landscape? Could she not see the steep hills, the prolific rocks, the lack of water? Assuming you still needed or wanted to use this land to produce food (which I do), to my mind, it is grazing land. Anything else would be extremely challenging. Not only are rocks and hills awkward to navigate, and our lack of irrigation problematic, the terrain is in places frankly a nightmare for the machinery and equipment essential to cropping. I think of a contractor who informed us he would not be working our paddocks any longer after his spreader truck got not one or two, but four flat tyres. We typically apply fertiliser by air now. I explained this to Jess, and she listened with interest. Sign up to receive Guardian Australia's fortnightly Rural Network email newsletter That's stuck with me, because it reminded me how many people have strong views about agriculture. And so they should. Farmers manage more than half of Australia's landmass. We are arguably custodians of one of the country's greatest assets: its ability to feed and clothe its own people, and the wider world. But knowledge about and personal experience of agriculture is dwindling. Perceptions of agriculture from outside of the industry – particularly in the cities where most Australians live – are often negative. Stories showcasing great custodianship and care don't make the front page – it's only news when something goes wrong. This isn't unique to our industry. I know the old newsroom adage: 'If it bleeds, it leads.' The difference in agriculture is that our work is increasingly foreign to the very people who rely on our produce every day. It's the challenge of our industry, and one I've personally taken on: to advocate in an environment where the divide between rural and urban communities is greater than ever before. In 2021, 66.9% of Australia's population lived in its greater capital cities. Many have little or no connection to the people who grow the products they eat, wear or use every day. Research by CQUniversity makes this gap even clearer. In 2021 they surveyed more than 5,000 primary and secondary school students to evaluate their knowledge of agriculture. The results were, to my mind, alarming. They found secondary students who believe Australian cattle are raised exclusively in sheds. (To clarify, only 4% of Australia's beef herd is in a feedlot at any given time and are generally raised on pasture. Only 20% of Australia's milk production comes from intensive or housed dairy systems.) They also found primary school students who believe cotton is an animal product not a plant; and who believe chickens are routinely fed hormones (a practice banned more than 60 years ago). I believe the work of an advocate, unlike that of an activist or influencer, is to build connection and knowledge. To start with a desire to understand: what do you think of agriculture? What would you like to know? I ask these questions not because I expect to change your mind, but I hope to engage with you. I hope you might share with me, so I might better understand perceptions of agriculture. I don't believe the future of agricultural advocacy lies simply in an exchange of facts, though I wholeheartedly agree all conversations should be underpinned by credible research and evidence. But it's the stories from agriculture that I believe truly show the deeply complex industry of which I'm a part. That shows you the heart of it, and what it has to offer. Sometimes those stories are dark. Death, not often part of everyday urban life, is a normal part of agriculture, especially livestock farming. That can be confronting, even for farmers with decades of experience. But it's part of our life. When my eldest daughter was two, we had a terrible calving season, with cows struck down by a condition called grass tetany. It resulted in the death of many cows straight after birthing. One morning my daughter asked me to play with her. 'Be a cow, Mummy!' I obliged and tried to look suitably bovine. 'Moo, Mummy!' I mooed. 'Now lie down dead!' I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I probably did both. Stories can also share joy. I took a couple of orphan lambs we were hand-rearing into my daughter's childcare and gave a group of very excited three-year-olds the opportunity to interact with them. We bottle-fed the lambs and passed around handfuls of unprocessed wool, and some yarn, to compare textures and smell. The kids delighted in the experience, and our much-loved lambs fought over the milk bottle. All went well, with some added entertainment from my daughter casually taking a swig from the lambs' milk bottle. Raising livestock is complex. Together with my husband, we're dedicated to raising our children to appreciate the joy of caring for animals and providing them with an environment to thrive, alongside the understanding that we are growing animals for food and fibre. Farmers often say city people don't understand agriculture. But the gap goes both ways. Most farmers I know own the land they work. It's easy to forget what it's like to bid for a rental, move every 12 months, or raise kids in high-rise apartments with no green space. We complain about potholes and distances between towns, but we're not stuck on highways for hours each day, or wrangling toddlers and groceries on public transport. Bridging that divide isn't about proving who has it tougher. It's about recognising the difference and respecting what each life involves. I love the saying: 'No one in the history of calming down has ever calmed down because they were told to calm down.' I don't see a future for agricultural advocacy in telling people stuff. I see a future in listening and in sharing, openly. Does my friend Jess want me to grow plants, not animals, for food on our property? Maybe. Just because we have the same information doesn't mean we're going to have the same opinion. But I think she also understands why we grow beef. And while she won't be having steak on the barbecue with us any time soon, I'm grateful she gave me the chance to explain why we do what we do. Felicity Richards is the chairperson of Farmsafe Australia and the Tasmanian Biosecurity Advisory Committee. She runs a beef grazing operation in northern Tasmania with her husband, Mark. You can contact her here. Sign up for the Rural Network email newsletter
Washington Post
4 days ago
- General
- Washington Post
Kristi Noem said an immigrant threatened to kill Trump. The story quickly fell apart
A claim by Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem that an immigrant threatened the life of President Donald Trump has begun to unravel. Noem announced an arrest of a 54-year-old man who was living in the U.S. illegally, saying he had written a letter threatening to kill Trump and would then return to Mexico. The story received a flood of media attention and was highlighted by the White House and Trump's allies.
Japan Times
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- Japan Times
Atsuko Okatsuka's brings big 'dad' energy to new special
It was a dad joke that nobody saw coming. There stood comedian Atsuko Okatsuka, sporting her signature bowl cut, beside a man she hadn't seen in decades — her estranged father — under the dim lights of Tokyo Comedy Bar in Shibuya. Looking at his shoulders, she suddenly says, 'This whole time I've had the body of an engineer!' This was back in April 2023, at a 'secret' stand-up set advertised with only a silhouette — and that bowl cut, an obvious giveaway to anyone who had seen the comedian's viral videos or her first special, 'The Intruder,' which had come out a few months prior on HBO Max. What the small crowd gathered to see her didn't realize was that they would get a rare chance to witness a family reunion, too. The comedian's previous special, 2022's 'The Intruder,' won her rave reviews and in some ways led to an unexpected family reunion in Tokyo. | JOHAN BROOKS Okatsuka — who is Japanese on her father's side and Taiwanese on her mother's — was only 8 when she last saw her father. At that time, she was living with him in Chiba Prefecture, attending elementary school there. One day, her mother and grandmother took her for a holiday to Los Angeles and simply never brought her back. As comedians often do, Okatsuka now finds the humor in her complicated history, joking about her life as an immigrant with both daddy issues and Stockholm Syndrome. 'My vibe is kidnapped. That's what I'm giving,' she says on stage with an exaggerated wail. 'I could have had a whole different life in Japan. Now I am an American ... with a story. You don't want to be that.' Grandma and the 'drop challenge' Her story will be a major part of her new comedy special, titled 'Father,' set to be released worldwide via Hulu and Disney+ on June 13, just in time for Father's Day weekend. 'I didn't want to leave and I had no choice,' Okatsuka says earnestly over an early morning video call from her home in LA. 'I lost my friends. I lost some family. And then I had to become a famous comedian to be able to come back.' Okatsuka, now 37, changes her voice as if to mimic her grandmother, 'I'll take her to LA, she'll be a star!' While she doesn't necessarily use the word 'grateful' when it comes to these past parental decisions, she clearly isn't resentful either, even referring to grandma as her 'best friend.' She backs the sentiment with actions, too. Fans will recognize her grandmother from many of the videos she posts to her million-plus following on Instagram, including her viral 'drop challenge' clips, which see her sink to the ground during a beat drop inspired by Beyonce's 'Partition.' Okatsuka says giving people a relatable look into her life during the pandemic is what helped build her fanbase, which in turn enabled her to tour. 'I had been doing stand-up for so long. I was ready to tour but you need an audience to tour,' she says, adding that eventually the audience grew to allow her 'to go back to places that I came from ... Taiwan, Japan.' Okatsuka's complicated family history — which included living as an undocumented immigrant for seven years and living with her mother's schizophrenia — is laid bare in her comedy. 'Nothing is private with me,' she says. If you've been following Atsuko Okatsuka, you'll be familiar with her complicated past. "My vibe is kidnapped. That's what I'm giving," she says. | JOHAN BROOKS As a comedian who built her career over social media during the pandemic, Atsuko Okatsuka says by giving people a look into her 'relatable' lifestyle she was able to acquire fans, which in turn led her to being able to tour internationally. | JOHAN BROOKS In 'Father,' she also riffs on her husband (and the special's director) Ryan Harper Gray's vasectomy, and, judging by sets she tried out in Tokyo during her month-long stay in January, we're likely to hear about naked bathtime awkwardness with her grandmother as well as her dentist's suggestion to have a threesome. Don't mistake Okatsuka's candidness for an intention to shock, though. Her delivery is whimsical, even naively child-like at times. She says she learned English from watching cartoons, which might explain her style, the vibrant and colorful outfits she's known for, and her comedic physicality: She often pulls funny faces or suddenly freezes on stage, a la 'Scooby Doo.' (Come to think of it, Velma had short hair and wore bright colors, too!) When Okatsuka talks about wanting to do something wacky, like ride a tandem bike with her husband, it's not that hard to imagine her doing it. Her humor is sharp, but never cruel. 'Male comedians come up here and what do they want to know? 'Are you two together? Are you fucking?'' she says to the audience in 'Father.' 'Nuh-uh. Not me. I want to know, 'How did you become friends?' That's all I care about.' Okatsuka's draw isn't just about childish observations, eccentric outfits or that bowl cut — which is a common look with schoolchildren in Japan. It's also about the relatability of struggling with grown-up responsibilities — failing at 'adulting.' 'I didn't know how paperwork works, so me and Ryan didn't know we weren't married for the past seven years,' she says, explaining how the couple had forgotten to turn in the right forms at City Hall — which they finally got around to doing last year, filming it all for social media. In one of her comedy routines, she admits that she doesn't do laundry because, well, it baffles her. Her husband does it, though, 'and that is ... feminism.' Call her daddy In addition to touching on her family history, Okatsuka says, ''Father' is also a bit about the idea of gender role reversal. 'My fans call me 'mother,' but to me, mothers have it together. So, I'm more ... 'father' — thriving in life but clueless about the basics.' She pauses, remembering her own mother isn't the nurturing type either. 'What does it mean for her to be a normal woman? Nobody is normal,' she says. 'There is no being one kind of person, let alone one kind of woman. So, yeah, call me 'father.'' With that 2023 homecoming show under her belt, and visits to Japan on her international 'Full Grown' tour the year after, it seems like Okatsuka has been getting reacquainted with her homeland. She and her husband were back in Tokyo around the New Year's holiday period to live here for a month. During that time, she did multiple shows at Tokyo Comedy Bar where she made her audiences sing the Japanese national anthem and flexed her improving Japanese skills, courtesy of Duolingo or, as she puts it, 'that owl that told me I was good.' It's a reminder to know your audience — language-learning struggles are something a Tokyo crowd will understand well, whether they're new to Japan or locals who've tried to improve their English. 'So many people live in places they did not come from. So many people feel they don't belong anywhere,' she says. 'That feeling is in my comedy. That feeling is home for all of us. So we have each other, right?' Atsuko Okatsuka waits backstage before performing in Tokyo earlier this year. The Japanese comedian who grew up in California has been making more and more trips to Japan as of late. | JOHAN BROOKS Yurie Collins, a comedian who is bilingual and bicultural, and opened for Okatsuka during some of her 'Full Grown' tour dates, says she can relate to those themes on many levels. Collins says watching Okatsuka perform was 'nothing short of inspiring.' 'She reminded me that when you're a true entertainer, there are no borders,' Collins adds. 'The audience's familiarity with English or stand-up comedy didn't matter; she connected with everyone in the room. She proved that if you bring heart, charisma and craft, you can win over any crowd.' Future reunions? During her holiday stay, Okatsuka won over the crowds at Tokyo Comedy Bar testing new material ahead of the 'Father' release. It was yet another family anecdote where she got the most laughs, though, telling the story of meeting her half-brother for the first time. She insisted they meet at a theme park, 'her own turf,' as she puts it. So, they decided on Edo Wonderland Nikko Edomura in Nikko, Tochigi Prefecture. 'I needed distractions. Samurai and ninja chasing after us,' she says. One thing they have in common? An odd sense of humor: He asked her to pose like a cat for a photo as soon as they met. 'Are you kidding me?' she recalls. 'We are the same person!' For those in Tokyo, we can only hope there are a few more relatives that Okatsuka has yet to meet. Maybe then she'll keep doing sets at Tokyo Comedy Bar. While remaining noncommittal, she doesn't rule out future visits. 'Anyway, if you have an apartment you want to let us rent, let us know,' she laughs. Atsuko Okatsuka says her comedy caters to those who feel like they 'don't belong anywhere.' | JOHAN BROOKS 'Father' premieres in Japan on Disney+ on June 13. For details, visit
New York Times
26-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Times
Building a Home From 100 Miles of Cord
The artist Chiharu Shiota has drawn a simple shape in thin air and at monumental scale — a rectangle with a pitched roof, instantly recognizable as the universal symbol of home. This ethereal installation is made of polyester cord — some 21,000 lengths of it, streaming down 23 feet from the ceiling of the ICA Watershed, a massive exhibition space at an active shipyard in East Boston. A rectangular forest of blood-red cords hangs nearly to the floor of this former factory space. Inside, the cords shift to lengths of black that form a dark silhouette of a house. Visible within this mirage-like structure are antique furnishings — a four-poster bed, rocking chair, dinette set, sewing table and chair — with a spectacular flock of paper, some 6,000 sheets, fluttering above the domestic tableau. Shiota's new commission, titled 'Home Less Home,' opened Thursday under the banner of the inaugural citywide Boston Public Art Triennial and will remain on view through Sept. 1. 'The house shape looks like a shadow because home does not exist,' Shiota said in a recent interview at the Watershed, as she reached among the cords to affix the final pieces of paper with a stapler. 'Home is like something in your heart, inside,' added the soft-spoken artist, 53, who grew up in Osaka and has lived and worked in Berlin since 1997. Shiota's immigrant story, both personal and age-old, echoes those of many residents living in East Boston near the shipyard, once the second largest point of immigration in the United States after Ellis Island. Earlier this spring the ICA distributed a flier asking the local community to consider Shiota's open-ended questions of 'what home means, what it feels like to leave home and what it takes to rebuild it.' Their personal stories, photographs, drawings and documents were reproduced on the sheets of white paper animating her installation. For almost three decades, the artist has created haunting, visceral environments using vast webs and fields of her signature cords — she calls them 'threads' — entwined with accumulations of well-worn objects, like shoes or beds that evoke both human presence and absence. At the Venice Biennale in 2015, Shiota transformed the Japanese Pavilion with an atmospheric matrix of red thread embedded with thousands of collected keys raining down into wooden rowboats — objects poetically summoning ideas of entry, exit, passage, afterlife. A midcareer retrospective that opened in 2019 at the Mori Art Museum in Tokyo, 'The Soul Trembles,' has toured Busan, South Korea; Shanghai and Shenzhen, China; Taipei, Taiwan; Jakarta, Indonesia; Brisbane, Australia; and most recently Paris — with an accompanying monograph published this spring by Skira (the show travels next to Italy and Canada). Mami Kataoka, the director of Mori Art Museum who organized the retrospective, said by email that she has been astonished by visitor numbers worldwide that have far exceeded each institution's expectations. 'Beyond cultural differences, this response underscores the universality of the themes in Chiharu's work,' Kataoka wrote, including 'our shared fear about an uncertain future and our common quest to understand the meaning of life and what may lie beyond it.' Shiota left her own home in Japan with just one suitcase to study abroad, eventually finding her way to Berlin. She trained as an abstract painter but early on shifted to 'painting in the air,' she called it, using networks of wool thread, a medium she felt better conjured the intangible tangles of emotions and invisible connections among people. 'Many times I'm using red string, the color of blood,' she said, symbolic of 'family, nation, religion, survival.' In Berlin, a city she found weighted with history, and inspiring to her artwork, Shiota met her husband and raised their daughter, who is 18. 'Now I have the feeling I have two home countries,' said the artist, who often collects discarded suitcases and other commonplace items at Berlin flea markets for her installations. For the ICA Watershed, Shiota's largest museum show in the U.S., she has also adapted her 2014 piece 'Accumulation — Searching for the Destination' near the entrance as part of her reflection on home. Thirty pieces of vintage leather luggage, dangling inside another shower of red threads, lead viewers into the show. Some of the suitcases are packed with an internal motor, making them bob as though adrift at sea. 'Each person, one suitcase — they're ready to go but we don't know where,' said Shiota, who will have solo shows in New York this fall at the Japan Society and Templon gallery. 'Chiharu is incredible at picking these objects that feel like they have this lifetime of wear and use and memory in them, that can be a kind of surrogate for a human story,' said Ruth Erickson, the chief curator at the ICA. She invited Shiota to make the site-specific installation for the cavernous Watershed space, calling her 'an artist who understands how to work at a scale that can be a real challenge.' 'Home Less Home' comprises around 100 miles of cord, roughly the distance from the Watershed to Cape Cod. Walking the processional length of the installation, a visitor experiences it perceptually dissolving into singular threads up close, while in longer views, it coalesces into a majestic volume. Shiota has created a winding pathway through the heart of her project, and viewers can see at close range what's printed on the fluttering sheets of paper. There are photographs of airport reunions, children playing on front lawns, a Venezuelan's first experience of snow in Boston. One person offered a recipe for apple dumplings. A child's drawing of a house includes the handwritten line, 'Home is all the important people who makes the life better.' A woman contributed her own falsified adoption papers deeming her an orphan, with the accompanying message: 'May all Korean adoptees find their way back home.' While none of Shiota's work is overtly political, 'this idea of where one makes one's home and what the connections are to a place could never be more at the forefront of our minds,' Erickson said. 'We see a country and an administration really analyzing those rights.' Against the backdrop of court cases and debates raging in the news cycle about the fate of immigrants, who so often are portrayed as a faceless monolith, the testimonies in 'Home Less Home' are acute in their individuality. Sifting through these collected stories, they touched Shiota like a chorus of voices. 'I never met this person,' she said, 'but I feel like I know this person.'
