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David Bowie met Angela “Angie” Barnett in the late 1960s, at a time when both were trying to find their place in the wor...
12/29/2025

David Bowie met Angela “Angie” Barnett in the late 1960s, at a time when both were trying to find their place in the world. Angie was a model, confident and bright, full of life, while David was an ambitious musician, dreaming of something beyond the ordinary. When they married in 1970, it seemed like the start of a fairytale. Their lives were filled with energy, creativity, and the excitement of the unknown. Soon after, they welcomed their son, Duncan, into the world, and for a while, family and dreams seemed intertwined.

But as Bowie’s career took off, everything changed. Fame came fast and unrelenting, pulling him away from the life they had imagined together. The tours, the constant attention, the demands of being in the spotlight—these were forces Angie could not compete with. She watched as the man she loved slipped further into a world she could not always enter, a world of endless expectation and scrutiny. The boy who had once been playful and present in their home became distant, always moving toward something just out of reach.

Angie tried to hold their family together. She tried to protect Duncan, to keep the home warm and safe, to be a wife and mother in a life that demanded more than she could ever give. But the distance between her and David grew, measured not just in miles but in moments lost, conversations never had, and quiet nights spent wondering if the love they once shared could survive the pressure around it.

By the late 1970s, cracks had turned into chasms. Arguments, long silences, and the realization that they were growing into different people made it impossible to stay together. In 1980, Angie filed for divorce. The end of their marriage was a heartbreak that seemed both inevitable and cruel. Bowie, despite the distance, carried his grief privately, while Angie faced the emotional weight of rebuilding a life that had once felt secure and full.

Through it all, Duncan became the tie that remained. Both parents loved him fiercely, and both tried to give him stability in a world turned upside down by ambition and separation. For Angie, every moment of his childhood was a reminder of love lost and of the family that once was whole. For Bowie, the memories lingered in his music, in fleeting thoughts, in the quiet moments when fame faded and only the personal cost remained.

Their story is not just about fame or failure it is about two people who loved deeply but were pulled apart by circumstances larger than themselves. It is about the ache of realizing that love alone cannot always conquer the pressures of life, ambition, and change. Angie and Bowie never stopped caring for each other entirely, but the life they had dreamed of together was gone, replaced with memory, longing, and the bittersweet understanding that some loves, no matter how true, are not meant to last.

Even decades later, the shadow of their marriage remained in both their lives—a reminder of joy, heartbreak, and the price of chasing dreams while holding on to love. It is a story of love that shined brightly but burned too quickly, leaving behind warmth and sorrow, laughter and tears, forever intertwined in their shared past.

Ada Morrison was committed to Connecticut asylum in 1893, age thirty, by husband who wanted younger wife. Commitment rea...
12/29/2025

Ada Morrison was committed to Connecticut asylum in 1893, age thirty, by husband who wanted younger wife. Commitment reason: "excessive reading and intellectual pretensions unsuitable for woman." Ada had taught school before marriage, read constantly, discussed politics. Husband said this proved mental instability. Two doctors examined her for ten minutes, agreed intelligent woman was clearly insane. Ada was locked in asylum for four years, labeled insane for being educated. She escaped eight times. Caught seven times. Succeeded once. Took four years of attempts—climbing windows, picking locks, bribing guards, hiding in laundry carts. Ada's intelligence that got her committed was same intelligence that freed her.
This tintype from 1897 shows Ada after final successful escape, age thirty-four, displaying scars from previous attempts—broken arm from second-floor fall, burn marks from climbing hot steam pipes, lash marks from punishment after failed escapes. She holds commitment papers declaring her "mentally deficient with delusions of intellectual capability." Ada had graduated college. Taught school for six years. Read Latin and Greek. Asylum declared this insanity. Her husband declared it embarrassing. Her intelligence declared it crime. Ada spent four years proving she was sane enough to escape place she was imprisoned for being smart.
Ada reached New York after escape, changed name to Sarah Bennett, worked as clerk hiding education level to avoid suspicion. Never contacted family—they'd supported commitment. Never remarried—couldn't trust man with legal power over her freedom. Lived quietly for thirty-eight years, died in 1935, age seventy-two, having spent thirty-eight years hiding intelligence that had nearly destroyed her. Ada had been imprisoned for reading. Spent rest of life pretending she barely could. That was survival in world that called educated women insane.
After her death, landlady found Ada's room filled with books—hundreds of volumes hidden behind false wall. Ada had kept reading despite risk, kept learning despite having been punished for it, kept thinking despite it being dangerous for woman in her era. Also found: diary documenting eight escape attempts with detailed notes about asylum security, guard rotations, lock mechanisms. Ada had been brilliant enough to escape asylum that imprisoned brilliant women. Her commitment papers are now in women's history museum: "Ada Morrison was committed for reading too much. Escaped asylum eight times before succeeding. Spent 38 years hiding intelligence that prison couldn't contain. She was insane for being smart. World was insane for calling that illness."

German soldier Dominikus Müller in a hospital, 1917, after losing his entire lower body.This photograph was sent as a po...
12/29/2025

German soldier Dominikus Müller in a hospital, 1917, after losing his entire lower body.

This photograph was sent as a postcard by Müller himself, with the translated note on the back:

"Remembering the time when I was severely wounded during an air-raid in France on 25/04/1917. Dominikus Müller."

The later life of Dominikus Müller remains unknown. We can only hope he survived and found some measure of peace after such a devastating injury. — in New York, NY, United States.

“I have found freedom and independence, and I don’t intend to give them up.”📸: Sam Shaw
12/28/2025

“I have found freedom and independence, and I don’t intend to give them up.”

📸: Sam Shaw

My father called me to his study in March of 1856, one month after Foster’s rejection.The fire was low. The curtains wer...
12/28/2025

My father called me to his study in March of 1856, one month after Foster’s rejection.

The fire was low. The curtains were drawn. He did not offer me a seat.

“I have arranged a marriage,” he said flatly.

I laughed—once. Bitter. Broken.

“With whom?” I asked.

“Josiah.”

The word landed like thunder.

“The blacksmith,” he clarified, as if there were another.

I gripped the arms of my wheelchair. “Father, that’s impossible. He is enslaved.”

“For now,” he said. “But I will free him. He will be your husband in law, before God, and before this household.”

My father was not a sentimental man. He did nothing without calculation.

“You will never be safe alone after I am gone,” he continued. “White men see weakness in you. Josiah sees duty. Strength. Loyalty.”

I whispered, “Does he know?”

My father nodded. “He agreed without hesitation.”

That frightened me more than anything.



The First Meeting

Josiah came to the house two days later.

Not through the servants’ entrance—but the front door.

That alone sent whispers through the walls.

He ducked slightly as he entered. The man truly was enormous. Broad shoulders, scarred hands, posture straight as iron. His eyes, however, were lowered.

“Miss Whitmore,” he said quietly.

His voice was deep—but controlled. Gentle.

“I am honored,” he added, and then did something no man had ever done before me.

He knelt.

Not because he was enslaved.

But so we would be eye to eye.

“I swear,” he said, “you will never be a burden to me.”

Something inside me cracked open.



What Society Didn’t See

They thought my father had lost his mind.

White neighbors stopped visiting.

Church elders whispered about abomination.

Some said Josiah would kill me in my sleep.

Others said worse.

But they never saw what I saw.

They didn’t see him learn how to lift my chair without pain.

Didn’t see him build ramps into the house with his own hands.

Didn’t see him sit beside me for hours, reading aloud when my legs ached and my spirit was tired.

He never once treated me as broken.

And I never once treated him as property.



The Marriage

We were married quietly.

No grand church. No audience.

Just a minister, my father, and God.

Josiah was freed that morning.

When the minister said, “You may kiss the bride,” Josiah hesitated.

“May I?” he asked me.

I nodded.

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me that.



What Came After

My father died three years later.

He left the estate in trust—to me.

Josiah became the manager, then the owner, then something unheard of in Virginia.

A Black landholder.

When the war came, we sheltered runaways.

When emancipation arrived, Josiah hired the same men who once feared him—and paid them.

We had children.

Yes—children.

Three of them.

Strong. Kind. Free.



What History Forgot

They called me unmarriageable.

They called him a brute.

They were wrong about both of us.

Love didn’t save us.

Respect did.

And in a world built on chains—
we chose each other instead.

We're remembering Senior Airman Alecia Sabrina Good, a courageous Air Force member who gave her life in service to our c...
12/28/2025

We're remembering Senior Airman Alecia Sabrina Good, a courageous Air Force member who gave her life in service to our country.

Alecia enlisted in October 2001 and served as a radio operator with the 92nd Communications Squadron at Fairchild Air Force Base, Washington.

Deployed to Djibouti as part of Operation Enduring Freedom, she tragically died at age 23 on February 17, 2006, from injuries sustained when two CH-53 helicopters crashed into the Gulf of Aden during a nighttime training mission.

She left behind a young child and grieving family and community.

Her sacrifice reminds us of the true cost of freedom.

Rest in peace, Alecia🙏🏼

Soba noodles deliverymen in Tokyo, c. 1930s.
12/28/2025

Soba noodles deliverymen in Tokyo, c. 1930s.

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