Nivriti Agaram is not someone you’d expect to be chanting anti-Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) slogans.

Agaram, 21, is the daughter of Indian immigrants. She moved to the U.S. when she was 2 years old and became a citizen five years ago. In the 2024 presidential election, her first vote, Agaram cast her ballot for Donald Trump, in no small part because of her belief in the need for a strong border.

“Trump was the only one talking about immigration. Kamala was too scared to talk about it,” Agaram said.

But this past weekend, Agaram bought a ticket to fly from Washington, D.C., to Minneapolis, where she waved an American flag to protest Trump’s “unconstitutional” immigration tactics.

Welcome to Things Worth Remembering, our weekly column in which writers share a poem or paragraph that all of us should commit to heart. This week, award-winning sportswriter Peter Richmond looks back on the moment his career took a remarkable turn, sparked by poetry from an unlikely source: Elvis Costello.

My ninth-grade English teacher, Mac, was appropriately English. He favored tweed jackets, sweater-vests, and tortoiseshell glasses, and spoke in a very Merchant Ivory voice—which he frequently used to emphasize to the class that the poetry of a handful of white European men from distant centuries represented the pinnacle of Western literature. Poetry, Mac said, in the exactitude of its language and form, held the key to the exquisite beauty of the literary promised land.

Mac was a great teacher, so I trusted him. But I could not untangle the words of Lord Byron and John Keats. “Lethe-wards had sunk” wasn’t the kind of phrase that made me want to know what Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” was trying to tell me. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I liked to read and write stories that had a narrative arc. Poems generally left me wondering why the sentences were randomly diced up; if they were even sentences at all. And so, for many years, I believed that until I found a way into the lyrical mysteries of classical poetry, I’d be forever deprived literarily, and a lesser writer for it.

Former CNN host Don Lemon was arrested around midnight Thursday night for his involvement with a group of people who disrupted services inside Cities Church in Minneapolis last week, apparently because they believed a pastor there is also an Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officer. Mainstream media outlets are erupting with indignation that a “journalist” is being prosecuted for “covering” a news event.

Is Lemon potentially criminally liable, or is he constitutionally protected as a journalist?

The short answer: There is no such thing as journalistic immunity in criminal law, so yes, Lemon is potentially criminally liable. But proving he committed a crime will be quite difficult.

Many journalists seem to imagine they can’t be prosecuted if all they’re doing is “covering” the news, and usually that’s true. But reality is not always so simple. By his own admission, Lemon met with the Cities Church protest group in advance, knew a lot about what they were planning to do, knew when and where they were planning to do it, kept those facts secret, and then entered and filmed the event while it was taking place.

Now imagine that a journalist did all of that, but the event being planned was murder.

In 2006, a booker for CNBC asked me to go on the air and argue against Kevin Warsh’s nomination to the Federal Reserve’s board of governors. They wanted “balance” for a segment featuring a Warsh supporter. I had no idea who Warsh was and declined.

Twenty years later, I know Kevin Warsh well from dozens of panels, conferences, and conversations. And I still wouldn’t go on television to argue against him. In fact, I want to see him confirmed as chair of the world’s most important central bank.

But Warsh’s confirmation should come only after the Senate asks hard questions that fully establish his commitment to independence—and after President Donald Trump takes visible steps to shore up the Fed’s autonomy. That starts with heeding Senator Thom Tillis’s call to resolve the legal cloud hanging over current chair Jerome Powell. Markets function on credibility. So does the Federal Reserve.

Warsh clears the substantive bar for the job. He is quick, intellectually serious, and capable of engaging with arguments he disagrees with. He understands the Fed, the executive branch, and financial markets. He has the raw materials to be an excellent Fed chair.

Welcome back to The Weekend Press! Today, our reporter Gabe Kaminsky drinks milk with RFK Jr. Suzy Weiss watches the much-maligned “Melania” documentary. River Page and Kat Rosenfield consider what two very raunchy TV series tell us about the state of the culture. And more! But first, Free Press book czar Jillian Lederman wants to introduce a remarkable excerpt from an upcoming book about the stories we need to live well and rest in peace:

Think about the first story you were ever told. It probably began a simple way: Once upon a time. These four words have opened the door to thousands of fables and fairy tales—stories steeped in magic and wonder, meant to pass down the moral architecture of a flourishing society to generations of children.

But according to mythographer Martin Shaw, those stories are slipping away.

You may remember Martin from his essay on Christmas Eve about how, one night several years ago, he found God in the woods. But long before that fateful day, he had been traveling the world bringing ancient myths to contemporary audiences, pushing back against a hyper-technological age that promises happiness through ruthless efficiency and instant gratification—often contradicting the wisdom of our most trusted stories.

Now, Martin has compiled those stories into a forthcoming book, Liturgies of the Wild, which is out Tuesday. We’re thrilled to bring you an exclusive excerpt today, tackling an aspect of life too many of us try to ignore: the end. There are those of us, Martin says, who spend all our time fearing death, chasing medical innovations and cosmetic interventions in desperate pursuit of immortality. A few days ago, our government gave the green light to the first human clinical trial of a therapy designed to literally reverse the aging process.

But if we look to ancient cultures, he writes, “the importance of not cheating death is a theme that rears up . . . time and again.” To show why, Martin begins his essay with the old tale of a young healer who tried to trick Death. . . .

How should you spend your weekend? We asked our associate editor Madeleine Kearns for some recommendations . . .

📚 Read . . . I recently read The Children of Men by the English writer P.D. James, mainly because two writers I admire, Ross Douthat and Louise Perry, kept referring to it as prophetic. It’s set in 2021—which, given the book was written in the early ’90s, is THE FUTURE. In it, the world is in total demographic collapse owing to universal male infertility, and a sinister yet soft-mannered authoritarian rules in the UK, where the elderly are killed in a program of state-sponsored suicide. Lovely. I think I’ll read some nonfiction next, to cheer myself up. Probably Kathleen Stock’s upcoming book, Do Not Go Gentle: The Case Against Assisted Death.

📺 Watch . . . My husband and I have been on what can only be described as a total binge of Homeland, the show from the 2010s about the CIA starring Clare Danes and Inigo Montoya (a.k.a. Mandy Patinkin) from The Princess Bride. I won’t lie. It’s been a rough ride. Some real gems have died horrible deaths. Some incredible episodes have been followed by total duds. Danes’s character is the worst kind of crazy. But we just keep going back for more. Incidentally, lovers of the show may enjoy this hilariously accurate Saturday Night Live skit.

🍳 Eat . . . Okay, so I know this columnette (can I call it that?) is not exactly meant for recipes, but trust me on this, you’ll thank me. Get yourself some ground beef, honey, soy sauce, Huy Fong chili garlic sauce, and Terry Ho’s Yum Yum Sauce. Brown the ground beef in olive oil, breaking it up with a wooden spoon. Add several large splashes of soy sauce, a couple of tablespoons of chili garlic, and a drizzle of honey. Once thoroughly cooked, serve the beef over rice with a side of roasted cauliflower and broccoli florets and a drizzle of Yum Yum Sauce. This is the perfect 15-minute dinner you never knew existed. You’re welcome.

🎵Listen . . . Parenting an infant, you become well-versed in the art of distraction. After a long drive to visit family out of state, we discovered that our baby girl is well-placated by ABBA: “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!,” “Fernando,” and “Dancing Queen.” Once the waterworks start, just crack out Agnetha, Björn, Benny, and Anni-Frid, and you’ve just bought yourself at least 30 seconds.

Finally, we remember Emmy Award-winning comic actress Catherine O’Hara, who passed away yesterday at 71. For decades, O’Hara brought viewers joy and countless laughs through her iconic work in films like Home Alone, Beetlejuice, and more.

That’s all, folks! Have a great weekend.

The Free Press earns a commission from any purchases made through all book links in this article.

Welcome back to Second Thought. Today we dive into Melania, the documentary about our First Lady that has everyone talking; yet another Ye (formerly known as Kanye West) apology; and why you should just ignore the Doomsday Clock.

When the Slovenian-born First Lady Melania Trump, in a smoky eye and a false lash, is getting a benediction from a priest at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City on the anniversary of her mother’s passing while a gospel rendition of “Amazing Grace” rings out, you won’t be able to help but think to yourself, Well, ain’t that America. It’s one of many bizarre yet beautifully captured moments in the new documentary Melania.

Given the subject, and the potentially political particulars of the doc’s distribution deal through Amazon, which paid $40 million to acquire it and $35 million to promote it, and given that director Brett Ratner hasn’t made a film since being accused of sexual assault almost 10 years ago, the documentary got quite a lot of attention before the lights went down. Rolling Stone did an investigation into the apparently chaotic conditions on set. Ticket sales are being studied as if they’re contested presidential ballots in Fulton County, Georgia. My own theater basically had only reporters in it; everyone had a notebook out, and luckily, someone had an extra pen.

But what actually happened during the 104 minutes that promised an inside look into the mind and world of the elusive First Lady? Well, many dress fittings, and many, many trips in Chevy Suburbans.

“Once upon a time.” From our very earliest ages, that’s how we’ve been taught to begin a story. Those four words have given rise to thousands of fairy tales—through which we teach kindness, orient our moral compasses, and build communities that last.

We need these stories to understand ourselves. But according to mythographer Martin Shaw, we are losing touch with them, allowing ancient wisdom to be eclipsed by the superficiality of our hyper-technological age.

You may remember Martin from his stunning essay on Christmas Eve, about his unexpected conversion to Christianity while approaching the age of 50. Since then, Martin has traveled the world, bringing ancient myths to contemporary audiences, seeking to combat what he sees as a destructive cultural amnesia about the values that shape our civilization.

Now, Martin has compiled those stories into a forthcoming book, Liturgies of the Wild, which debuts on February 3. We’re honored to run the exclusive excerpt. In it, he tackles one of the most important aspects of being human, one we instinctively turn away from: the reality that our lives will end. As medicine advances and religion recedes, we grow ever more uneasy about death, and do everything in our power to ignore it. But that is not, Martin writes, how it was ever meant to be. —The Editors

Once upon a time, a worn-out man with 13 kids was walking a lonely road. He met a stranger and asked him to be the godfather for his youngest child. The stranger revealed that he was God, and the man changed his mind, as he felt God had allowed his grievous poverty. He walked on and asked another man. This grinning fellow was the Devil, and the father took back the offer and hurried on. Finally, the man met Death. Because Death took from both rich and poor, the father thought this fair, and asked him to be the godfather. Death tilted his head in the half-light and agreed.

MANHEIM, Pennsylvania — I’m on a bus with Robert F. Kennedy Jr., and it smells like cow dung. It was last Wednesday, and this trip was to kick off his “Take Back Your Health” tour promoting the Trump administration’s new dietary guidelines—released on January 7. Earlier in the day, I watched the Health and Human Services secretary make a speech to a crowd of his “Make America Healthy Again (MAHA)” supporters in the state capital of Harrisburg, where he railed against “an existential crisis in American health.” Now we were touring Kreider Farms, a huge dairy farm, watching 1,600 cows get milked.

“We call it the ‘Milking Merry-Go-Round,’ ” says Ron Kreider, 67, who runs the farm with his two daughters. I’m seated behind RFK Jr. as Ron explains to him that Kreider Farms owns 4,000 acres in three counties. It’s about a 45-minute drive from Harrisburg, and it is just north of Lancaster, effectively the Amish capital of the world.

The two men couldn’t look more different. RFK Jr. is wearing a black suit and black shoes, and a baby-blue dress shirt with a black silk tie that has a little red snake peeking out of the top left corner (Gucci, limited edition). Kreider is wearing a dark khaki jacket, navy-blue jeans, and leather boots. But they are in full agreement when it comes to the importance of dairy.

In addition to being the largest producer of eggs in Pennsylvania, Kreider’s buttermilk, chocolate milk, pumpkin pie milk, and two dozen ice cream flavors are sold across supermarkets in the mid-Atlantic. Before we hop on the bus, one of his daughters shares that she drinks two glasses of milk a day. “We’re happy to have you on our side,” Kreider says to RFK Jr. as they discuss the new food pyramid.

At this late stage of the culture wars, caving to an online mob demanding that you resign from your job is just about understandable, if totally unadvisable. But thanking them for their pitchforks and calls for your head is just plain pathetic. Consider the case of Odessa A’zion, a 25-year-old actress who has had a banner year, starring alongside Rachel Sennott in the HBO comedy I Love LA and Timothée Chalamet in Marty Supreme. She is a Gen Z dream: wild curls, baggy pants, and 2 million Instagram followers. She’s a nepo baby—her mother is the comedian Pamela Adlon. She’s also being played for a fool.

This past Wednesday, A’zion announced that she’d fired herself from a movie—an A24 adaptation of the book Deep Cuts, a music-centered romance—because people online were furious that she was set to play a half-Jewish, half-Mexican character named Zoe Gutierrez, the main character’s best friend. And you might want to sit down for this part, because get this: A’zion is not Mexican. Not even half. Imagine. The horror.

“I’m so pissed y’all, I hadn’t read the book and should have paid more attention to all aspects of Zoe before accepting…. . .and now that I know what I know???” A’zion posted on her Instagram a few days after she’d been cast, “Fuck that! IM OUT.” She pleaded ignorance, and pointed out that she’d auditioned for the main role but was offered, and took, a supporting one. A’zon said she wished she’d “clocked her name,” and then she fed the lion some of her fingers in the hopes of preserving her face: “THANK YOU guys for bringing this to my attention. I AGREE WITH EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU! This is why I love you guys.”

Welcome back to Ancient Wisdom, our series in which writers over 70 tell us how they are aging gracefully. Last week, Susie Kaufman, who writes the Substack Seventysomething, described the joys of the cha-cha at age 80. This week, Michael Friedman, 82, writes about dealing with the grief he has felt since losing his lifelong soulmate, his wife Harriet.

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My wife of nearly 49 years died from pancreatic cancer six months ago. I held her as she took her last labored breaths. She was 81 years old.

Harriet had had a long life and, as she said repeatedly while she was dying, a happier life than she ever expected. She accepted the inevitability of her death gracefully, and dare I say, optimistically.

To my surprise, I wasn’t ready to accept it. We had prepared, I thought. She and I had had all the conversations you should have about what we wanted to happen to our bodies and what kind of service we wanted. We had done our advance directives—wills, beneficiary designees, healthcare proxies, and all the rest of it. Our affairs were in order. We were ready.

Except: Our expectation had always been that I would die first, as men usually do, especially men like me with multiple chronic health conditions. Harriet had settled into the idea that she would be a widow, and so had I. She was close to her family and had many friends who would be there for her. We were both sure that her life after I died would continue to be fulfilling, and we were both comforted by that.

It turned out, when she was the one who died first, and I was the widower, I was not so ready after all. I was not ready to find myself crying with little provocation. I was not ready to be alone in our bed. I was not ready for her not to be there to talk to. As I said in my eulogy for her, when I finished writing it, I got up from my desk to go show it to her. I sat back down, stunned, when I realized she wasn’t there.