Category: Analysis

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Matthew Pittman, Associate Professor of Advertising and Public Relations, University of Tennessee

Curious Kids is a series for children of all ages. If you have a question you’d like an expert to answer, send it to CuriousKidsUS@theconversation.com.

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How does a person become famous when they’re just a kid? – Anushka, age 9, St. Augustine, Florida

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First, consider what kind of fame you want. Some kids, such as Blue Ivy Carter or Suri Cruise, are known for having famous parents – in their cases, singer Beyoncé and actors Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise. That’s something you can’t really control.

Maybe you want to be a star athlete, like basketball player Caitlin Clark or skateboarder Sky Brown. If you’re good at a sport, practicing a lot will make you even better, and you might get famous.

Or maybe you want to be a famous musician. Singer LeAnn Rimes won her first Grammy Award at age 14. Justin Bieber was discovered on YouTube when he was 12. If you work hard at playing an instrument or singing, you increase your chances of getting noticed.

A newer way to become famous is to be a social media influencer – a person who gets paid, either with money or with stuff, to help sell things on social media. A 2023 survey of 1,000 Gen Zers – people in their early teens to mid-20s – found that 57% wanted to become influencers.

I study social media and teach a social media class at the University of Tennessee. I also have a side gig as an influencer. My posts have gone viral and been seen hundreds of millions of times all around the world. I post silly and serious things about my life on Instagram and TikTok.

Here are some things to know about fame at a young age.

There wasn’t always a youth culture

Before modern times, people didn’t pay much attention to children in the way that we do now. There were a few exceptions, such as composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who played music as a child for kings and queens in the 1700s, but they were rare.

Things changed a lot as the U.S. population boomed after World War II. Businesses realized that young people were a big market, and a new, youth-focused culture developed. Movies, TV shows and songs were increasingly made for young people, featuring young people.

Now, thanks to social media and the internet, kids can get famous without being star athletes or actors. If you can make videos, sing songs, tell jokes or share art from your phone or computer and people like what you post, they might share it with others. Some kids become famous just by being really good at explaining things or showing their everyday lives.

For example, Anastasia Radzinskaya, an 11-year-old Russian American girl who shares content about children’s songs and games, has 1.5 million followers on Instagram. Ethan Gamer, a video game influencer, started appearing on YouTube in 2013 at age 7.

Pros and cons

Being a famous kid can offer a lot of benefits. You might get to appear on TV or in movies, wear cool clothes, or hang out with famous athletes or celebrities. You might also get to make money that you could use to support your family, pay for a high-quality education or fund causes that you care about, such as protecting nature or feeding hungry people.

But there also are downsides. Famous kids often have to work a lot and don’t have much time to hang out with friends. Also, people may say hurtful things about you on social media, which is something you can’t control.

Being famous can pressure people to act or dress in certain ways. Handling attention and criticism from strangers can be stressful for any young person, and fame makes the challenge much harder.

Should you try to be an influencer?

For me, influencing can be fun and creative. It’s cool to make a video and know that lots of people around the world are enjoying it.

Another plus is that the skills you need to be an influencer – communicating clearly, producing digital content and helping other people find cool new products – can be valuable as you grow up, no matter what job you have.

However, most influencers don’t make enough money to do it full time – they do it as a side gig while working a real job. If you are a kid, school should be your full-time job.

You also should expect to get rejected a lot before you start developing an audience. This can make you emotionally strong in the long run, but it still hurts when you share your work and no one seems to notice. Most influencers put in years of effort to learn the skills that help make them successful.

You’re likely to get negative responses that can hurt your feelings. You will need your parents’ help to manage online feedback and know how to react to all kinds of responses, positive and negative.

It’s definitely possible for kids to be famous today, but that doesn’t mean that every kid should try. What’s important is to do things that you enjoy, even if the whole world isn’t watching.

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Hello, curious kids! Do you have a question you’d like an expert to answer? Ask an adult to send your question to CuriousKidsUS@theconversation.com. Please tell us your name, age and the city where you live.

And since curiosity has no age limit – adults, let us know what you’re wondering, too. We won’t be able to answer every question, but we will do our best.

Matthew Pittman’s influencer posts focus on his college teaching and family life. He occasionally receives products or payments in return for promoting toys, teaching tools and family games.

– ref. How does a person become famous when they’re just a kid? – https://theconversation.com/how-does-a-person-become-famous-when-theyre-just-a-kid-255820

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Tanya Olson, Associate Teaching Professor, University of Maryland, Baltimore County

On March 15, 1974, the Grand Ole Opry country music radio show closed its run at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee, with Johnny and June Carter Cash leading the song “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” After that final show, a six-foot circle of wood was cut from the Ryman stage and moved to the new Grand Ole Opry House.

The next night, Roy Acuff opened the first show at the new venue. A video of Acuff singing in the 1940s played before the screen lifted to reveal Acuff himself, singing live in the same spot. The message was clear: Though the stage had changed, the story continued. The circle had not been broken.

The Opry began on WSM on Nov. 28, 1925, and is celebrating its centennial with a series of concerts and tributes under the name Opry 100. On March 19, 2025, Reba McEntire stepped onto the iconic circle on the Grand Ole Opry stage and kicked off NBC’s Opry 100 celebration with a verse of “Sweet Dreams.”

The final song of the night was “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” performed by country legends like Bill Anderson and Jeannie Seely alongside newcomers like Lainey Wilson and Post Malone. It was a moment meant to celebrate 100 years of country music tradition and connection with a stage full of voices harmonizing across generations. A circle, unbroken.

But that night in March, one group of country performers was missing. Not a single openly gay, lesbian or bisexual artist appeared onstage during the anniversary celebration. In a moment designed to honor the full sweep of the genre’s past and future, a long line of country musicians was left standing outside the spotlight once again.

A slowly opening circle

Country music has never been without queer voices, but it regularly refuses to acknowledge them.

From 1962 to 1982, Wilma Burgess had 15 songs on Billboard’s Hot Country chart and two Grammy Award nominations. She recorded with legendary producer Owen Bradley and had Top 10 hits like “Misty Blue.” Despite this success, Burgess never played the Opry. Though Burgess was never publicly out, her sexuality was common knowledge in recording circles. In the 1980s, she left music and opened The Hitching Post, Nashville’s first lesbian bar. Like so many queer country artists, Burgess had to build her legacy outside the circle.

In the 1980s and 90s, k.d. lang and Sid Spencer expanded the presence of queer artists in country music. Lang won two Grammys and performed at the Opry, but she was labeled “cowpunk” and left the genre before coming out in 1992. Spencer released albums and toured widely within the gay rodeo circuit, but he was never recognized by mainstream country before his 1996 death from AIDS-related complications.

The 2000s offered small openings. Mary Gauthier became the first openly queer artist to perform on the Opry stage in 2005. Chely Wright had a No. 1 country single before coming out in 2010, but didn’t return to the Opry until 2019. Ty Herndon charted 17 singles before coming out in 2014. He wouldn’t appear at the Opry again until 2023.

These artists established themselves first and came out later, at great professional cost. The Opry hosts 5–6 shows a week, featuring 6–8 artists each night. In that context, a nine-year absence isn’t just a scheduling gap. In addition, the Grand Ole Opry currently has 76 members, a special designation indicating a level of success in country music. None of them identify as LGBTQ+.

Today, there are signs of change. Lily Rose, who has been openly queer since the beginning of her career, receives radio play, has songs on the charts and tours widely. But she remains the exception, not the rule. Other openly LGBTQ+ artists like Paisley Fields, Mya Byrne and Amythyst Kiah are recording, performing and building loyal audiences, but they are still rarely featured on country radio or invited onto the Opry stage. The circle may be widening, but for many queer artists, it’s still just out of reach.

The importance of the circle

In country music, visibility isn’t just symbolic. If you’re not on the radio, you don’t chart. If you don’t chart, you don’t tour. Without that platform, you can’t build a legacy.

Country radio and the Opry stage serve as gatekeepers of who counts. In 2015, a radio consultant infamously compared women artists to “tomatoes in the salad,” stating a few were fine, but they shouldn’t dominate. That same logic has long applied to queer artists; they can be tolerated at the edges but are rarely treated as essential.

Genre labeling becomes another barrier. Brandi Carlile and Brandy Clark both openly identify as lesbians and have been embraced by country audiences and critics alike, but they are routinely categorized as Americana artists. That rebranding often functions as a fence that keeps artists close enough to celebrate, but far enough to exclude.

Reimagining the circle

The Opry’s centennial celebrations are scheduled to continue through the end of 2025 with a concert at London’s Royal Albert Hall and a final anniversary show in Nashville on Nov. 28. Perhaps openly queer artists will take the stage at those events. If they do, it won’t just be symbolic; it will be a long overdue acknowledgment of artists who have always been here, even if they weren’t always seen.

Country music’s strength lies in how it braids together American traditions: gospel and blues, Black and white, rural and urban, old and new. It’s not a genre built on purity, but one that relies on the mix. That mix is what makes country music American – and what makes it endure.

If the circle on the Opry stage is meant to stand for country music itself, then I hope it will be like the music: honest and able to grow. If “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” is more of a promise than just a closing number, the future of country music depends on who’s allowed in the circle to sing it next.

Tanya Olson does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Queer country: LGBTQ+ musicians are outside the spotlight as Grand Ole Opry turns 100 – https://theconversation.com/queer-country-lgbtq-musicians-are-outside-the-spotlight-as-grand-ole-opry-turns-100-251892

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Deyanira Nevárez Martínez, Assistant Professor of Urban and Regional Planning, Michigan State University

In cities across the U.S., the housing crisis has reached a breaking point. Rents are skyrocketing, homelessness is rising and working-class neighborhoods are threatened by displacement.

These challenges might feel unprecedented. But they echo a moment more than half a century ago.

In the 1950s and 1960s, housing and urban inequality were at the center of national politics. American cities were grappling with rapid urban decline, segregated and substandard housing, and the fallout of highway construction and urban renewal projects that displaced hundreds of thousands of disproportionately low-income and Black residents.

The federal government decided to try to do something about it.

President Lyndon B. Johnson launched one of the most ambitious experiments in urban policy: the Model Cities Program.

As a scholar of housing justice and urban planning, I’ve studied how this short-lived initiative aimed to move beyond patchwork fixes to poverty and instead tackle its structural causes by empowering communities to shape their own futures.

Building a great society

The Model Cities Program emerged in 1966 as part of Johnson’s Great Society agenda, a sweeping effort to eliminate poverty, reduce racial injustice and expand social welfare programs in the United States.

Earlier urban renewal programs had been roundly criticized for displacing communities of color. Much of this displacement occurred through federally funded highway and slum clearance projects that demolished entire neighborhoods and often left residents without decent options for new housing.

So the Johnson administration sought a more holistic approach. The Demonstration Cities and Metropolitan Development Act established a federal framework for cities to coordinate housing, education, employment, health care and social services at the neighborhood level.

To qualify for the program, cities had to apply for planning grants by submitting a detailed proposal that included an analysis of neighborhood conditions, long-term goals and strategies for addressing problems.

Federal funds went directly to city governments, which then distributed them to local agencies and community organizations through contracts. These funds were relatively flexible but had to be tied to locally tailored plans. For example, Kansas City, Missouri, used Model Cities funding to support a loan program that expanded access to capital for local small businesses, helping them secure financing that might otherwise have been out of reach.

Unlike previous programs, Model Cities emphasized what Johnson described as “comprehensive” and “concentrated” efforts. It wasn’t just about rebuilding streets or erecting public housing. It was about creating new ways for government to work in partnership with the people most affected by poverty and racism.

A revolutionary approach to poverty

What made Model Cities unique wasn’t just its scale but its philosophy. At the heart of the program was an insistence on “widespread citizen participation,” which required cities that received funding to include residents in the planning and oversight of local programs.

The program also drew inspiration from civil rights leaders. One of its early architects, Whitney M. Young Jr., had called for a “Domestic Marshall Plan” – a reference to the federal government’s efforts to rebuild Europe after World War II – to redress centuries of racial inequality.

Young’s vision helped shape the Model Cities framework, which proposed targeted systemic investments in housing, health, education, employment and civic leadership in minority communities. In Atlanta, for example, the Model Cities Program helped fund neighborhood health clinics and job training programs. But the program also funded leadership councils that for the first time gave local low-income residents a direct voice in how city funds were spent.

In other words, neighborhood residents weren’t just beneficiaries. They were planners, advisers and, in some cases, staffers.

This commitment to community participation gave rise to a new kind of public servant – what sociologists Martin and Carolyn Needleman famously called “guerrillas in the bureaucracy.”

These were radical planners – often young, idealistic and deeply embedded in the neighborhoods they served. Many were recruited and hired through new Model Cities funding that allowed local governments to expand their staff with community workers aligned with the program’s goals.

Working from within city agencies, these new planners used their positions to challenge top-down decision-making and push for community-driven planning.

Their work was revolutionary not because they dismantled institutions but because they reimagined how institutions could function, prioritizing the voices of residents long excluded from power.

Strengthening community ties

In cities across the country, planners fought to redirect public resources toward locally defined priorities.

In some cities, such as Tucson, the program funded education initiatives such as bilingual cultural programming and college scholarships for local students. In Baltimore, it funded mobile health services and youth sports programs.

In New York City, the program supported new kinds of housing projects called vest-pocket developments, which got their name from their smaller scale: midsize buildings or complexes built on vacant lots or underutilized land. New housing such as the Betances Houses in the South Bronx were designed to add density without major redevelopment taking place – a direct response to midcentury urban renewal projects, which had destroyed and displaced entire neighborhoods populated by the city’s poorest residents. Meanwhile, cities such as Seattle used the funds to renovate older apartment buildings instead of tearing them down, which helped preserve the character of local neighborhoods.

The goal was to create affordable housing while keeping communities intact.

What went wrong?

Despite its ambitious vision, Model Cities faced resistance almost from the start. The program was underfunded and politically fragile. While some officials had hoped for US$2 billion in annual funding, the actual allocation was closer to $500 million to $600 million, spread across more than 60 cities.

Then the political winds shifted. Though designed during the optimism of the mid-1960s, the program started being implemented under President Richard Nixon in 1969. His administration pivoted away from “people programs” and toward capital investment and physical development. Requirements for resident participation were weakened, and local officials often maintained control over the process, effectively marginalizing the everyday citizens the program was meant to empower.

In cities such as San Francisco and Chicago, residents clashed with bureaucrats over control, transparency and decision-making. In some places, participation was reduced to token advisory roles. In others, internal conflict and political pressure made sustained community governance nearly impossible.

Critics, including Black community workers and civil rights activists, warned that the program risked becoming a new form of “neocolonialism,” one that used the language of empowerment while concentrating control in the hands of white elected officials and federal administrators.

A legacy worth revisiting

Although the program was phased out by 1974, its legacy lived on.

In cities across the country, Model Cities trained a generation of Black and brown civic leaders in what community development leaders and policy advocates John A. Sasso and Priscilla Foley called “a little noticed revolution.” In their book of the same name, they describe how those involved in the program went on to serve in local government, start nonprofits and advocate for community development.

It also left an imprint on later policies. Efforts such as participatory budgeting, community land trusts and neighborhood planning initiatives owe a debt to Model Cities’ insistence that residents should help shape the future of their communities. And even as some criticized the program for failing to meet its lofty goals, others saw its value in creating space for democratic experimentation.

Today’s housing crisis demands structural solutions to structural problems. The affordable housing crisis is deeply connected to other intersecting crises, such as climate change, environmental injustice and health disparities, creating compounding risks for the most vulnerable communities. Addressing these issues through a fragmented social safety net – whether through housing vouchers or narrowly targeted benefit programs – has proven ineffective.

Today, as policymakers once again debate how to respond to deepening inequality and a lack of affordable housing, the lost promise of Model Cities offers vital lessons.

Model Cities was far from perfect. But it offered a vision of how democratic, local planning could promote health, security and community.

This article is part of a series centered on envisioning ways to deal with the housing crisis.

Deyanira Nevárez Martínez is a trustee of the Lansing School District Board of Education and is currently a candidate for the Lansing City Council Ward 2.

– ref. Could a bold anti-poverty experiment from the 1960s inspire a new era in housing justice? – https://theconversation.com/could-a-bold-anti-poverty-experiment-from-the-1960s-inspire-a-new-era-in-housing-justice-253706

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Richard Gunderman, Chancellor’s Professor of Medicine, Liberal Arts, and Philanthropy, Indiana University

When Western Electric invented electrical sound recording 100 years ago, it completely transformed the public’s relationship to music.

Before then, recording was done mechanically, scratching sound waves onto rolled paper or a cylinder. Such recordings suffered from low fidelity and captured only a small segment of the audible sound spectrum.

By using electrical microphones, amplifiers and electromechanical recorders, record companies could capture a far wider range of sound frequencies, with much higher fidelity. For the first time, recorded sound closely resembled what a live listener would hear. Over the ensuing years, sales of vinyl records and record players boomed.

The technology also allowed some enterprising music fans to make recordings in surprising and innovative ways. As a physician and scholar in the medical humanities, I am fascinated by the use of X-ray film to make recordings – what was known as “bone music,” or “ribs.”

This rather bizarre, homemade technology became a way to skirt censors in the Soviet Union – and even played an indirect role in its dissolution.

Skirting the Soviet censorship regime

At the end of World War II, Soviet censorship shifted into high gear in an effort to suppress a Western culture deemed threatening or decadent.

Many books and poems could circulate only through “samizdat,” a portmanteau of “self” and “publishing” that involved the use of copy machines to reproduce forbidden texts. Punishments inflicted on Soviet artists and citizens for producing or disseminating censored materials included loss of employment, imprisonment in gulags and even execution.

The phonographic analog of samizdat was often referred to as “roentgenizdat,” which was derived from the name of Wilhelm Roentgen, the German scientist who received the first Nobel Prize in physics in 1901 for his discovery of X-rays.

Roentgen’s work revolutionized medicine, making it possible to peer inside the living human body without cutting it open and enabling physicians to more easily and accurately diagnose skeletal fractures and diseases such as pneumonia.

Today, X-rays are produced and stored digitally. But for most of the 20th century they were created on photographic film and stored in large film libraries, which took up a great deal of space.

Because exposed X-ray films cannot be reused, hospitals often recycled them to recoup the silver they contained.

Making music from medicine

In the Soviet Union in the 1940s, some clever people realized that X-ray film was just soft enough to be etched by an electromechanical lathe, or sound recording device.

To make a “rib,” or “bone record,” they would use a compass to trace out a circle on an exposed X-ray film that might bear the image of a patient’s skull, spine or hands. They then used scissors to cut out the circle, before cutting a small hole in the middle so it would fit on a conventional record player.

Then they would use a recording device to cut either live sound or, more commonly, a bootleg record onto the X-ray film. Sound consists of vibrations that the lathe’s stylus etches into grooves on the disc. Such devices were not widely available, meaning that only a relatively small number of people could produce such recordings.

The censors kept a close eye on record companies. But anyone who could obtain a recording device could record music on pieces of X-ray film, and these old films could be obtained after hospitals threw them out or purchased at a relatively low price from hospital employees.

Compared with professionally produced vinyl records, the sound quality was poor, with recordings marred by extraneous noises such as hisses and crackles. The records could be played only a limited number of times before the grooves would wear out.

Nonetheless, these resourceful recordings were shared, bought and sold entirely outside of official channels into the 1960s and 1970s.

A window into another life

Popular artists “on the bone” included Ella Fitzgerald and Elvis Presley, whose jazz and rock ’n’ roll recordings, to the ears of many Soviet citizens, represented freedom and self-expression.

In his book “Bone Music,” cultural historian Stephen Coates describes how Soviet authorities viewed performers such as The Beatles as toxic because they appeared to promote a brand of amoral hedonism and distracted citizens from Communist party priorities.

One Soviet critic of bone music recalled of its purveyors:

“It is true that from time to time they are caught, their equipment confiscated, and they may even be brought to court. But then they may be released and be free to go wherever they like. The judges decide that they are, of course, parasites, but they are not dangerous. They are getting suspended sentences! But these record producers are not just engaged in illegal operations. They corrupt young people diligently and methodically with a squeaky cacophony and spread explicit obscenities.”

Bone music was inherently subversive.

For one thing, it was against the law. Moreover, the music itself suggested that a different sort of life is possible, beyond the strictures of Communist officials. How could a political system that prohibited beautiful music, many asked, possibly merit the allegiance of its citizens?

The ability of citizens to get around the censors and spread Western thought, whether through books or bone music, helped chip away at the government’s legitimacy.

One Soviet-era listener Coates interviewed long after the USSR’s collapse described the joy of listening to these illicit recordings:

“I was lifted up off the ground, I started flying. Rock’n’roll showed me a new world, a world of music, words, and feelings, of life, of a different lifestyle. That’s why, when I got my first records, I became a happy man. I felt like a changed person, it was as if I was born again.”

Richard Gunderman does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. When Elvis and Ella were pressed onto X-rays – the subversive legacy of Soviet ‘bone music’ – https://theconversation.com/when-elvis-and-ella-were-pressed-onto-x-rays-the-subversive-legacy-of-soviet-bone-music-251885

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Trevin Corsiglia, PhD Candidate in Comparative Literature and Thought, Washington University in St. Louis

When I read and study Walt Whitman’s poetry, I often imagine what he would’ve done if he had a smartphone and an Instagram account.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, the poet collected an “abundance of photographs” of himself, as Whitman scholar Ed Folsom points out. And like many people today who snap and post thousands of selfies, Whitman, who lived during the birth of commercial photography, used portraits to craft a version of the self that wasn’t necessarily grounded in reality.

One of those portraits, taken by photographer Curtis Taylor, was commissioned by Whitman in the 1870s.

In it, the poet is seated nonchalantly, with a moth or butterfly appearing to have landed on his outstretched finger. According to at least two of his friends, Philadelphia attorney Thomas Donaldson and nurse Elizabeth Keller, this was Whitman’s favorite photograph.

Though he told his friends that the winged insect happened to land on his finger during the shoot, it turned out to be a cardboard prop.

Feigned spontaneity

The scene with the butterfly reflects one of the main themes of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” his best-known collection of poems: The universe is naturally drawn to the poet.

“To me the converging objects of the world perpetually flow,” he insists in “Song of Myself.”

“I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop,” Whitman adds. “They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me.”

Whitman told Horace Traubel, the poet’s close friend and earliest biographer, that “[y]es – that was an actual moth, the picture is substantially literal.” Likewise, he told historian William Roscoe Thayer: “I’ve always had the knack of attracting birds and butterflies and other wild critters.”

Of course, historians now know that the butterfly was, in fact, a cutout, which currently resides at the Library of Congress.

So what was Whitman doing? Why would he lie? I can’t get inside his head, but I suspect he wanted to impress his audience, to verify that the protagonist of “Leaves of Grass,” the one with “instant conductors,” was not a fictional creation.

Today’s selfies often give the impression of having been taken on the spot. In reality, many of them are a carefully calculated creative act.

Media scholars James E. Katz and Elizabeth Thomas Crocker have argued that most selfie-takers strive for informality even as they carefully stage the images. In other words, the selfie weds the spontaneous to the intentional.

Whitman does exactly this, presenting a designed photo as if it were a happy accident.

Too much me

As Whitman biographer Justin Kaplan notes, no other writer at the time “was so systematically recorded or so concerned with the strategic uses of his pictures and their projective meanings for himself and the public.”

The poet jumped at the opportunity to have his photo taken. There is, for instance, the famous portrait of the young, carefree poet that was used as the frontispiece for the first edition of “Leaves of Grass.” Or the 1854 photograph of a bearded and unkempt Whitman likely captured by Gabriel Harrison. Or the 1869 image of Whitman smiling lovingly at Peter Doyle, the poet’s intimate friend and probable lover.

Some social scientists have argued that today’s selfies can aid in the search for one’s “authentic self” – figuring out who you are and understanding what makes you tick.

Other researchers have taken a less rosy view of the selfie, warning that snapping too many can be a sign of low self-esteem and can, paradoxically, lead to identity confusion, particularly if they’re taken to seek external validation.

Whitman spent his life searching for what he termed the “Me myself” or the “real Me.” Photography provided him another medium, besides poetry, to carry on this search. But it seems to have ultimately failed him.

Having collected these images, he would then obsessively chew over what they all added up to, ultimately finding that he was far more lost than found in this sea of portraits.

I wonder if – to use today’s parlance – Whitman “scrolled” his way into a crisis of self-identity, overwhelmed by the sheer number of photos he possessed and the various, contradictory selves they represented.

“I meet new Walt Whitmans every day,” he once said. “There are a dozen of me afloat. I don’t know which Walt Whitman I am.”

Trevin Corsiglia does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Like today’s selfie-takers, Walt Whitman used photography to curate his image – but ended up more lost than found – https://theconversation.com/like-todays-selfie-takers-walt-whitman-used-photography-to-curate-his-image-but-ended-up-more-lost-than-found-256195

Source: The Conversation – USA (3) – By Olga Ensz, Clinical Assistant Professor of Community Dentistry, University of Florida

“He hides his smile in every school photo,” Jayden’s mother told me, holding up a picture of her 6-year-old son.

I first met Jayden – not his real name – as a patient at the University of Florida community dental outreach program in Gainesville, Florida. Jayden had visible cavities on his front teeth – dark spots that had become the target of teasing and bullying by classmates. The pain had become so severe that he began missing school. His family, living in a rural part of north Florida, had spent months trying to find a dentist who accepted Medicaid.

In the meantime, Jayden stopped smiling.

As a dental public health professional working in community dental outreach settings, I’ve seen firsthand how children across the state face significant barriers to achieving good oral health. Despite being largely preventable, tooth decay remains the most common chronic disease among children in the U.S., and Florida is no exception.

Pediatric dental health in Florida

Untreated dental problems can lead to pain, infection, difficulty eating or sleeping, and even affect a child’s ability to concentrate and learn. Poor oral health has also been linked to broader health issues such as heart disease.

According to the most recent data available from the Florida Department of Health, nearly 1 in 3 third graders in the Sunshine State had untreated tooth decay – that is, cavities – during the 2021–2022 school year. That’s almost double the national average of 17% of children ages 6-9 with untreated tooth decay and underscores the severity of the issue in Florida.

In addition, only 37% of Florida third graders had dental sealants. These thin coatings applied to the chewing surfaces of molars are proven to prevent up to 80% of cavities. Nationwide, 51.4% of kids have this cost-effective treatment.

The most recent data available from the 2017-2018 school year shows that 24% of children ages 3-6 in Florida’s Head Start program, which provides free health and education for low-income families with young children, had untreated tooth decay. By comparison, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention found that 11% of U.S. children ages 2-5 had untreated decay.

These numbers represent children like Jayden, whose pain and missed school days are preventable.

A 2023 report found that Florida children are increasingly visiting emergency rooms for nontraumatic dental conditions. Besides being costly and stressful for families, these visits generally provide only temporary relief. Emergency departments simply aren’t equipped to offer dental care that addresses the root problem.

Slipping through the cracks

Florida ranks among the worst states in the U.S. for dental care access, with over 5.9 million residents living in dental care health professional shortage areas. In fact, 65 of Florida’s 67 counties face shortages of dental professionals, with some areas reporting just 6.6 dentists per 100,000 people – far below the national average of 60.4.

This lack of access to care is compounded by poverty and insurance limitations.

More than 2 million Florida children are enrolled in Medicaid, but only 18% of Florida dentists – about 2,500 in total – accept it. And even families with private insurance often face high out-of-pocket costs, making essential dental care unaffordable for some. Delaying routine dental visits can allow minor issues to worsen over time, ultimately requiring more complex and costly treatment.

As a result, Florida ranks 43rd out of 50 states in the percentage of children receiving dental care in the past year.

Lack of awareness is also a problem. Research shows that many parents don’t realize their children should see a dentist by their first birthday, and that baby teeth matter just as much as adult teeth.

Prevention works

Historically, community water fluoridation has been one of the most effective public health strategies to reduce children’s tooth decay. While fluoridation is not meant to be a standalone prevention method, multiple studies have shown that it helps to prevent cavities in both children and adults. As recently as May 2024, the CDC supported the safety of this strategy.

However, a new Florida law, signed by Gov. Ron DeSantis in May 2025 and going into effect on July 1, now prohibits local governments from adding fluoride to public drinking water. This makes other preventive treatments even more essential.

Fluoride varnish, recommended by pediatric and dental associations, is a topical treatment that should be applied every 3-6 months to reduce the risk of tooth decay.

When a child has just the beginnings of a cavity, silver diamine fluoride is a noninvasive liquid treatment that can stop it from progressing. This is especially beneficial for young children or those with limited access to care.

These highly effective, evidence-based treatments are safe and cost-effective, and they can be delivered in schools, medical offices and clinics.

Keeping your kids’ teeth healthy

Here are some steps parents can take right now to protect their child’s dental health:

• Schedule regular dental visits, starting by age 1. Children should see a dentist by their first birthday or within six months of their first tooth. After that, annual visits help catch problems early, when treatment is easier and less expensive.

• For families in areas with few dental providers, parents can ask their child’s pediatrician for referrals, check state Medicaid websites or use the American Association of Pediatric Dentists’ “Find a Pediatric Dentist” tool. Some communities also offer care through federally qualified health centers, dental schools or mobile clinics at low or no cost.

• As soon as their teeth come in, children need to brush twice a day with fluoridated toothpaste. Use a smear of toothpaste about the size of a grain of rice for children under age 3, and a pea-sized amount for ages 3–5.

• Make brushing a fun and supported routine. Help your child brush until they can do it well on their own, usually around age 7 or 8. Play a favorite song or video to make brushing time enjoyable.

• Limit sugary snacks and drinks. Offer water and healthy snacks like fruits and vegetables. Avoid letting infants fall asleep with bottles of milk or juice, and limit sticky, sugary foods like candy, chips and cookies.

• Ask your dentist about sealants and fluoride varnish. These treatments are especially important for children at higher risk for cavities, such as those with limited access to dental care, a family history of tooth decay, visible plaque or the habit of frequent snacking.

Olga Ensz does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. 1 in 3 Florida third graders have untreated cavities – how parents can protect their children’s teeth – https://theconversation.com/1-in-3-florida-third-graders-have-untreated-cavities-how-parents-can-protect-their-childrens-teeth-257200

Source: The Conversation – USA (3) – By Katherine LeMasters, Assistant Professor of Medicine, University of Colorado Boulder

Colorado passed the Fentanyl Accountability and Prevention Bill in May 2022. The legislation made the possession of small amounts of fentanyl a felony, rather than a misdemeanor.

Felonies are more likely than misdemeanors to result in a prison sentence.

Time in prison is associated with an increased risk of fatal overdose in the year after release. People with felonies on their record often struggle to find a job or rent an apartment.

In 2023, lawmakers in 46 states passed legislation similar to Colorado’s. They introduced more than 600 bills related to fentanyl criminalization and enacted over 100 other laws to attempt to curb the opioid epidemic.

Possession of small amounts of ketamine, GHB and other criminalized drugs is also a felony in Colorado.

I’m an assistant professor of medicine, social epidemiologist and community researcher who studies mass incarceration as a public health threat. I am a member of the Right Response Coalition, which advocates for community rather than criminal-legal responses to behavioral health needs in Colorado. Recently, my work has focused on how increasing criminal penalties for fentanyl possession in Colorado affects the individuals and communities most impacted by such laws.

Our team conducted 31 interviews with Colorado policymakers, peer support specialists, law enforcement, community behavioral health providers and people providing behavioral health in prisons and jails to explore a variety of perspectives on Colorado’s Fentanyl Accountability and Prevention Bill and the role of the criminal-legal system in addressing substance use and overdose.

Most of our interviewees agreed that criminalization alone wouldn’t solve the opioid epidemic.

“You can’t incarcerate yourself to sobriety,” said a rural law enforcement officer. “You can’t incarcerate yourself out of the drug problem in America.”

Criminalization of drug use

Incarceration and substance use are deeply intertwined. The U.S. houses one-quarter of the world’s incarcerated population – largely due to policies created during the “war on Drugs” of the 1980s. The war on drugs included mandatory minimum sentencing for drug-related charges and “three strikes” laws that lengthened sentences after multiple charges.

Today, one-fifth of the U.S. incarcerated population has a drug-related charge.

Incarceration is often seen as a deterrent, but research shows it is not actually associated with reduced drug use. Instead, people recently released from incarceration are more likely to die of a fatal overdose and face a high likelihood of reincarceration.

Perspectives of front-line workers

All 31 of the participants in our study supported policies to prevent fentanyl overdoses. However, most thought that use of police and incarceration as avenues to do so was misguided.

We spoke to some individuals who felt the bill was appropriate, but most felt that increased criminalization perpetuates stigma against people who use drugs. They also saw the law as ignoring the root causes of the opioid epidemic, which include a lack of voluntary community-based treatment options. They also said the law creates stressful law enforcement encounters that can perpetuate drug use as a coping mechanism.

“It just seems like there’s no getting away from [the police], they’re everywhere,” said an urban peer support specialist. “I got arrested by the same cops, I don’t know how many times. And then it makes you want to try to be avoidant or run because they’re not going to help you.”

Participants worried that the policy has an inadvertent chilling effect, deterring individuals from calling 911 when an overdose occurs.

“Most people with substance abuse are not trying to report anything or get help for fear of going to jail,” one rural provider said. “It’s so stigmatized that everyone’s just scared to do that.”

Participants largely thought that counties were using incarceration as a default treatment setting and that it wasn’t an ideal solution.

“[I] don’t want to see [people] incarcerated, but I don’t want ‘em to die either,” said an urban peer support specialist.

The people we interviewed pointed to a lack of community-based care options that could come before people are incarcerated. Those options include substance use treatment centers, mental health services and community health centers.

Substance use treatment

Colorado’s fentanyl bill did more than just increase penalties. It also provided additional funding for a state naloxone program and required that all jails provide medications for opioid use disorder.

These medications include methadone, buprenorphine and extended-release naltrexone. All are part of an established public health strategy shown to reduce overdose deaths and opioid use. They’re also shown to increase engagement with non-jail-based treatment and reduce reincarceration.

However, jail capacity and the lack of treatment options based in one’s community play a large role in which medications are offered and to whom. For example, only 11 out of Colorado’s 46 counties with a county jail have an opioid treatment program in the community that can dispense methadone. Therefore, some facilities do not offer all medications, or only offer medications to individuals with an active prescription or to certain populations such as pregnant people.

Investing in community solutions

Based on our study’s findings, my study co-authors and I believe increased criminal penalties should not be the solution for linking individuals to treatment. Instead, there should be more investment in long-term community solutions.

One such solution is Denver’s Substance Use Navigation Program. The program sends behavioral health specialists to emergency calls to prevent legal involvement when someone is experiencing distress related to mental health, poverty, homelessness or substance use. In many cases, those individuals are then routed to services rather than jails.

Our findings also lead us to believe there is a need for more participatory policymaking processes when it comes to fentanyl legislation, and that policymakers should more closely work with the people who will be most impacted by new legislation. Most of our participants agree.

“[I] don’t think that [the] state realized how difficult it is,” said a rural provider about giving medication-assisted treatment in jail, an increasing need as more people are arrested for fentanyl possession. “They probably should come here and visit us.”

Katherine LeMasters received funding from the Colorado Department of Human Services, Behavioral Health Administration. Katherine LeMasters is part of the Right Response Coalition.

– ref. Colorado’s fentanyl criminalization bill won’t solve the opioid epidemic, say the people most affected – https://theconversation.com/colorados-fentanyl-criminalization-bill-wont-solve-the-opioid-epidemic-say-the-people-most-affected-256661

Source: The Conversation – USA (3) – By John R. Blosnich, Associate Professor of Social Work, University of Southern California

As part of the Trump administration’s efforts aimed at stopping diversity, equity and inclusion, the government has been restricting how it monitors public health. Along with cuts to federally funded research, the administration has targeted public health efforts to gather information about sexual orientation and gender identity.

In the early days of the second Trump administration, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention took down data and documents that included sexual orientation and gender identity from its webpages. For example, data codebooks for the Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System were replaced with versions that deleted gender identity variables. The Trump administration also ordered the CDC to delete gender identity from the National Violent Death Reporting System, the world’s largest database for informing prevention of homicide and suicide deaths.

For many people, sexual orientation and gender identity may seem private and personal. So why is personal information necessary for public health?

Decades of research have shown that health problems affect some groups more than others. As someone who has studied differences in health outcomes for over 15 years, I know that one of the largest health disparities for LGBTQ+ people is suicide risk. Without data on sexual orientation and gender identity, public health cannot do the work to sound the alarm on and address issues that affect not just specific communities, but society as a whole.

Alarms and benchmarks

Health is determined by the interplay of several factors, including a person’s genetics, environment and personal life. Of these types of health information, data on personal lives can be the most difficult to collect because researchers must rely on people to voluntarily share this information with them. But details about people’s everyday lives are critical to understanding their health.

Consider veteran status. Without information that identifies which Americans are military veterans, the U.S. would never have known that the rate of suicide deaths among veterans is several times higher than that of the general population. Identifying this problem encouraged efforts to reduce suicide among veterans and military service personnel.

Studying the rates of different conditions occurring in different groups of people is a vital role of public health monitoring. First, rates can set off alarm bells. When people are counted, it becomes easier to pick up a problem that needs to be addressed.

Second, rates can be a benchmark. Once the extent of a health problem is known, researchers can develop and test interventions. They can then determine if rates of that health problem decreased, stayed the same or increased after the intervention.

My team reviewed available research on how sexual orientation and gender identity are related to differences in mortality. The results were grim.

Of the 49 studies we analyzed, the vast majority documented greater rates of death from all causes for LGBTQ+ people compared with people who aren’t LGBTQ+. Results were worse for suicide: Nearly all studies reported that suicide deaths were more frequent among LGBTQ+ people. A great deal of other research supports this finding.

Without data on sexual orientation and gender identity, these issues are erased.

Lost data costs everyone

Higher death rates among LGBTQ+ people affect everyone, not just people in the LGBTQ+ community. And when suicide is a major driver of these death rates, the costs increase.

There are societal costs. Deaths from suicide result in lost productivity and medical services that cost the U.S. an estimated $484 billion per year. There are also human costs. Research suggests that for every suicide death, about 135 people are directly affected by the loss, experiencing grief, sadness and anger.

President Donald Trump’s targeting of research on sexual orientation and gender identity comes at a time when more Americans than ever – an estimated 24.4 million adults – identify as lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgender. That’s more than the entire population of Florida.

LGBTQ+ people live in every state in the country, where they work as teachers, executives, janitors, nurses, mechanics, artists and every other profession or role that help sustain American communities. LGBTQ+ people are someone’s family members, and they are raising families of their own. LGBTQ+ people also pay taxes to the government, which are partly spent on monitoring the nation’s health.

Stopping data collection of sexual orientation and gender identity does not protect women, or anyone else, as the Trump administration claims. Rather, it serves to weaken American public health. I believe counting all Americans is the path to a stronger, healthier nation because public health can then do its duty of detecting when a community needs help.

John R. Blosnich receives funding from the National Institutes of Health. He is affiliated with the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), however all time and effort into writing this piece was done outside of his work with the VA. The opinions expressed are those of Dr. Blosnich and do not necessarily represent those of his institution, funders, or any affiliations.

– ref. Data on sexual orientation and gender is critical to public health – without it, health crises continue unnoticed – https://theconversation.com/data-on-sexual-orientation-and-gender-is-critical-to-public-health-without-it-health-crises-continue-unnoticed-255380

Source: The Conversation – USA (3) – By Tania Lizarazo, Associate Professor of Latin American Studies and Global Studies, University of Maryland, Baltimore County

It’s been almost nine years since Colombia celebrated a landmark peace agreement between one guerrilla group and the government, and three years since President Gustavo Petro vowed “total peace.” But in reality, the country’s decades-long internal conflict continues – making it one of the oldest in the world.

Violence surged in early 2025, the most intense uptick in years. Fighting between two armed guerrilla groups in the northeastern Catatumbo region killed dozens of people and displaced tens of thousands more. Since the largest armed group – the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, known as FARC – signed the 2016 peace accord, more than 400 signatories have been killed. Meanwhile, more than 1,200 social leaders and human rights defenders have been assassinated.

We often define peace as the absence of war. The problem with thinking about peace and war as an all-or-nothing binary, however, is that it obscures the violence that takes place in “peaceful times.” For Colombians, that paradox is nothing new. In many communities most affected by the violence, thinking about a “post-conflict era” feels utopian.

As a Colombian researcher who has collaborated with Afro-Colombian leaders for over a decade, I have noticed that emphasizing peace talks and accords erases the historical violence that is still present, especially for racial minorities. Colombia has the largest Black population in Spanish-speaking Latin America. In Chocó – a region on the Pacific coast where I conducted my research – Afro-Colombians form a majority.

Communities there are contending not only with the contemporary conflict, but also ongoing challenges from the legacies of slavery, colonialism and extractive industries. Many residents, particularly women, work together every day to try to bring peace and justice within reach.

Rights vs. reality

Colombia has been mired in war for over six decades, as legal and illegal armed groups across the political spectrum fight for territories and resources. The conflict is estimated to have killed around 450,000 people and displaced around 7 million.

Black and Indigenous communities have disproportionately suffered the brunt of the war – especially in rural areas, where their lives and territories have been threatened by armed groups and companies alike. In Chocó Department, the site of my research, the region’s remoteness and biodiversity have attracted illegal groups and practices like drug trafficking, as well as mining and other types of resource extraction that threaten traditional livelihoods. Mercury from industrial mining poses an additional danger to people’s health and the environment.

Black rural communities in the Pacific lowlands, where most of Chocó is located, have a legal right to collective ownership of their territories and to be consulted about development plans. In reality, land grabs and targeted killings over illegal crops, mining and other extractive practices have become the norm here, as is true throughout rural Colombia.

The conflict has intensified racism and gender hierarchies, with Black women, particularly activists, especially vulnerable. Vice President Francia Márquez Mina, for example – who has won awards for her activism against illegal mining – survived an attack near her home in the nearby department of Cauca in 2019. She and her family have received other threats on their lives since then.

Building solidarity

Even in “postconflict” times, peace is a challenging task. It requires social change that does not happen overnight. Rather, it is the accumulation of tiny sparks in people’s daily commitments.

In my book “Postconflict Utopias: Everyday Survival in Chocó, Colombia,” I write about how Black women’s organizations care for their territories and communities. The “comisionadas,” for example, belong to one of the largest associations of community councils in rural Colombia, called COCOMACIA. These women travel the Atrato River and its tributaries to lead workshops about the organization, as well as territorial rights and women’s rights.

Everyone in the community is welcome to participate in dialogues about issues such as women’s political participation, land ownership and related legislation. Comisionada María del Socorro Mosquera Pérez, for example, wrote a song to share the importance of Law 1257, a landmark 2008 law against violence and discrimination against women.

In her story for the research project that I discuss in my book, “Mujeres Pacíficas,” comisionada Rubiela Cuesta Córdoba says it best: “The best legacy that one leaves to family and friends is resistance.”

One focus of these women’s groups’ work is the Atrato River itself. Since 2016, the same year of the peace accords, Colombian courts have recognized the river as a legal person, with rights to protection, conservation, maintenance and restoration.

The river is a source of food and transportation between many basin communities where potable water, electricity and other amenities are scarce. But it is also intertwined with politics and spirituality. Pilgrimages like “Atratiando,” a trip along the river and its tributaries that has taken place multiple times since 1999, highlight that there is no life without the river. Participants travel through areas where paramilitaries and guerrillas are active, showing solidarity with vulnerable communities.

COCOMACIA’s comisionadas are part of many other organizations – highlighting how survival is not only intertwined with lands and rivers, but other regions and countries. The struggle for women’s rights has led the comisionadas to collaborate with other organizations, creating wider networks of care. These include La Red Departamental de Mujeres Chocoanas, a feminist coalition of women’s organizations in Chocó; La Ruta Pacífica de las Mujeres, a feminist movement of 300 organizations from across Colombia; and Women in Black, an anti-militarism network with members in over 150 countries.

Their solidarity is a reminder that peace and justice are a collaborative, everyday effort. As Justa Germania Mena Córdoba, leader of the comisionadas at the time, told me in 2012: “One cannot change the world by herself.”

This article has been updated to correct the description of COCOMACIA.

Tania Lizarazo does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Peace has long been elusive in rural Colombia – Black women’s community groups try to bring it closer each day – https://theconversation.com/peace-has-long-been-elusive-in-rural-colombia-black-womens-community-groups-try-to-bring-it-closer-each-day-219550

Source: The Conversation – USA (3) – By Cody Musselman, Preceptor, College Writing Program, Harvard University

Déjà vu is a common occurrence in the world of sports, and the Edmonton Oilers are no strangers to repeat matchups. The Canadian team faced off against the New York Islanders in both 1983 and ’84 for hockey’s biggest prize, the Stanley Cup. In this year’s National Hockey League finals, the Oilers will try to avenge their Game 7 loss to the Florida Panthers in 2024.

Edmontonians who have been “loyal to the oil,” as fans say, have been waiting for redemption ever since. The Trump administration’s threats toward its northern neighbor has fueled a wave of nationalism, making even more fans eager for a Canadian team to win the Stanley Cup – which has not happened since 1993. With hopes pinned to Edmonton, the finals also brings renewed attention to some of Canada’s biggest exports: hockey and oil.

Novelist Leslie McFarlane once observed that for Canadians, “hockey is more than a game; it is almost a religion.” Prayers and superstitions abound, from wearing special clothing to fans averting their eyes during penalty shots.

The Oilers also evoke another aspect of Canadian society that, for some, has almost religious importance: resource extraction. In American and Canadian culture, oil has long been entangled with religion. It’s a national blessing from God, in some people’s eyes, and a means to the “good life” for those who persevere to find it. For many people in communities whose economies center around resource extraction, the possibility of success is valued above its environmental risks.

We are scholars of religion who study sports and how oil shapes society, or petro-cultures. The Edmonton Oilers showcase a worldview in which triumph, luck and rugged work pay off – beliefs at home on the ice or in the oil field. The Stanley Cup Final offers a glimpse into how the oil industry has helped shaped the religious fervor around Canada’s favorite sport.

Boomtown

Edmonton is the capital of Alberta, a province known for its massive oil, gas and oil sands reserves. With five refineries producing an average of 3.8 million barrels a day, oil and gas is Alberta’s biggest industry – and a way of life.

This is especially true in Edmonton, known as the “Oil Capital of Canada.” Here, oil not only structures the local economy, but it also shapes identities, architecture and everyday experiences.

Visit the West Edmonton Mall, for example, and you’ll see a statue of three oil workers drilling, reminding shoppers that petroleum is the bedrock of their commerce. Visit the Canadian Energy Museum to learn how oil and gas have remade the region since the late 1940s, and glimpse items such as engraved hard hats and the “Oil Patch Kid,” a spin on the iconic “Cabbage Patch Kids” toys. Tour the Greater Edmonton area and see how pump jacks dot the horizon. Oil is everywhere, shaping futures, fortunes and possibility.

Set against this backdrop, the Oilers’ name is unsurprising. It is not uncommon, after all, to name teams after local industries. Football’s Pittsburgh Steelers pay homage to the steel mills that once employed much of the team’s fan base. The Tennessee Oilers were originally the Houston Oilers, prompting other Texas teams such as the XFL’s Roughnecks to follow suit. Further north, the name of basketball’s Detroit Pistons references car manufacturing.

Teams with industry-inspired names play double duty, venerating both a place and a trade. Some fans are not only cheering for the home team, but also cheering for themselves – affirming that their industry and their labor matter.

In a TikTok video from last year’s Stanley Cups playoffs, a man overcome with joy at the Oilers’ victory over the Dallas Stars claps his hands and hops around his living room. The caption reads, “My first-generation immigrant oil rig working Filipino father who has never played a second of hockey in his life … happily cheering for the Oilers advancing in the playoffs. Better Bring that cup home for him oily boys.” He appears to be cheering for the Oilers not because they are a hockey team, but because they are an oil team.

And indeed, the Oilers are an oily team. The Oilers’ Oilfield Network, for example, describes itself as “exclusively promot[ing] companies in the Oil and Gas industry,” allowing leaders to connect “through the power of Oilers hockey.”

The Oilers’ connection with industry is further underscored by their logos. The current one features a simple drop of oil, but past designs featured machinery gears and an oil worker pulling a lever shaped like a hockey stick.

Simply put, “Edmonton is all oil,” Oilers goaltender Stuart Skinner shared after defeating the Dallas Stars to win the 2025 Western Conference Final.

Liquid gold

There is a long tradition of pairing hockey with oil – and with Canada itself.

After the British North America Act founded Canada in 1867, the new nation searched for a distinctive identity through sport and other cultural forms.

Enter hockey. The winter game evolved in Canada from the Gaelic game of “shinty” and the First Nations’ game of lacrosse and soon became part of the glue holding the nation together.

Ever since, media, politicians, sports groups and major industries have helped fuel fan fervor and promoted hockey as integral to Canada’s rugged frontiersman character.

In 1936, Imperial Oil, one of Canada’s largest petroleum companies, began sponsoring Hockey Night in Canada, a national radio show that reached millions each week. Several years later, Imperial Oil played a major role in bringing the show to television, where the Imperial Oil Choir sang the theme song. Imperial Oil and its gas stations, Esso, also sponsored youth hockey programs across the nation. In 2019, Imperial inked a deal to be the NHL’s “official retail fuel” in Canada.

Striking it rich

Connections between hockey and industry in Alberta’s oil country aren’t just about sponsorships. Central to both cultures is the idea of luck – historically, one of the many things it takes to extract fossil fuels. “Striking it rich” in the oil fields has become entangled with the idea of divine providence, especially among the many Christian laborers.

Philosopher Terra Schwerin Rowe has written about North America’s “petro-theology,” explaining how many perceive oil as a free-flowing gift from God meant to be taken from the Earth – if you can find it.

Oil represents fortune, and who wouldn’t want to borrow a bit of that for their team? Sports are thrilling because sometimes talent, team chemistry and the home-field advantage still lose to a stroke of good luck. Oil culture pairs the idea of divine favor with an insistence on rough-and-tumble endurance, similar to hockey.

Sometimes if you don’t strike it rich the first time, you have to keep on drilling. The next well may be the one to bring wealth. Oil prospectors know this, but so do sports fans who maintain hope season to season.

Soon fans from around the world will join Edmonton locals in rooting for the Oilers. They’ll throw their hands up in despair if captain Connor McDavid enters the “sin bin” – the penalty box – or dance in celebration to the Oilers’ theme, “La Bamba.” Some of them will be cheering, too, for oil.

This is an updated version of an article originally published on June 19, 2024.

Cody Musselman’s project was made possible through the support of grant #63243 ​from the John Templeton Foundation. The opinions expressed in this publication ​do not necessarily reflect the views of the John ​Templeton Foundation.

Judith Ellen Brunton does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. ‘Loyal to the oil’ – how religion and striking it rich shape Canada’s hockey fandom – https://theconversation.com/loyal-to-the-oil-how-religion-and-striking-it-rich-shape-canadas-hockey-fandom-258024