Why America Looks the Way It Does

To Europeans, the early United States was a curiosity: rich in resources yet poor in history. They were used to a storied landscape, where it was impossible to go for a stroll without tripping over the lithic remnants of some distant era. America, by contrast, seemed blank. The French writer Alexis de Tocqueville scoffed at the “day-old ruins” of deserted log cabins—the closest thing to historical depth that this pathetically young country could manage.

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He should have spent more time in Ohio. Settlers there were finding thousands of ancient Native mounds and earthworks, some bafflingly large. Refusing to believe that the ancestors of Native Americans could have built such monumental structures, writers floated bizarre theories as to who had. Perhaps it was a lost tribe of Israel, or an extinct race of giants. (Why not both?)

If oversized Jews were indeed behind it, they must have been especially fond of Pickaway County. It boasted mounds aplenty and the earthen remains of two forts, one circular and another square, constructed with startling geometric precision. In 1810, surveyors latched on to the circle and founded a city, named Circleville, in concentric arcs around it. This was “probably the only city in North America developed in a radio-concentric plan,” the historian John W. Reps wrote in 1955. (There’ve been others since.) It was also, he observed, probably the only settler city built around an Indigenous form.

Inside Meta’s Efforts to Prevent School Shootings

arry Baimbridge spent thirty-one years with the Houston Police Department, including stints as a homicide detective and as commander of the SWAT team. In 2023, he took a job as chief of police for the Spring Branch Independent School District, most of which is within the city. The job was more low-key—no more shootouts with snipers—but it came with its own challenges. After the 2022 shooting in Uvalde, Texas, which left nineteen elementary-school students and two teachers dead, the state legislature had neglected to pass any meaningful restrictions on guns; instead, the state required that every school campus have an armed security officer. “Of course, they didn’t provide enough funding for it, but that was the mandate,” Baimbridge said.

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The Spring Branch district served thirty-one thousand students across forty-odd campuses—“a very wealthy area on one side of the freeway and a very poor area on the other side,” Baimbridge said. Late in the school year, on February 18, 2025, he got a phone call from Brian Ennesser, a supervisory special agent at the F.B.I.’s Houston field office. The two men had met the year before, when Ennesser formed a threat-mitigation task force, a group that specializes in disrupting targeted mass violence, including at schools. Baimbridge knew right away that something was up; Ennesser usually texted or e-mailed. “Hey, man, we’ve got a problem,” Ennesser said.

The F.B.I. had received a tip about a potential threat to a local school. It involved two teen-agers, one a student at Spring Branch, the other at a school district north of Houston. Both were girls. “Once we identified it being two females, we were double-checking our work,” Ennesser later told me.

Gerald Cyrus’s Magnificent Images of Black Life

hen I look at Gerald Cyrus’s jazz photographs, I can hear the music. I can smell the stale-moldy-acid-floral scent of beer, of cigarettes on breath, of the air strained by sweat and White Diamonds perfume. I can hear the old man shouting with his arms raised, the blue-black night of a missing front tooth amplified by the shiny gold one next to it. I can feel the heat in the room, the human humidity dewing the windows in a thick fog, daring you to trace something on their misty sheets of protection. I can sense the vibration underfoot, the feet tapping and the glasses hitting countertops and the asses hitting barstools. I recognize the finger waves shaking loose, the relaxers napping up, the cigarettes dangling between cackling gapped teeth while “How Can I Ease the Pain” sizzles out from the jukebox.

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Starting in 1990, Cyrus, then a thirty-three-year-old M.F.A. student at the School of Visual Arts, began consistently documenting New York City. This month, TBW Books will publish a long-awaited collection of his images from that decade, “Uptown Odyssey.” The book gathers the photographs he took of the vibrant street corners of Harlem; of the dank, boisterous subways as he went to and from class; of Harlem’s legendary jazz clubs; and of dark, soulful night scenes, pocked with buzzing street lamps and gleaming cars. In one of my favorite images in the book, taken in 1994, two girls vamp for Cyrus’s camera beside an open fire hydrant, water spewing out onto the street and wetting their legs.

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In another photograph, from 1991, a mysterious figure clad in white skulks her way from the flat, flickering light of a train station into the seemingly endless night of the city. In an image from 1997, five men stand in front of a dazzling neon sign that reads “Lounge.” The picture is so vivid in its inky perfection that looking at it suggests the gravelly voice of the man standing on the far right, beneath the hair-braiding sign, as he explains how he picked up a girl thirty years ago who lived just beyond the frame. How she looked just like Sade; how he smooth-talked her inside a bodega and walked her home. These photographs are alive, electric, and damp with prosody, preserving moments of Black life that can never truly be duplicated.

Fashion Model Shoot

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Beauty of Nature

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