Word: uniformity
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...forklift driver couldn't cover private-school tuition. Yet Milancuk found a way out, thanks to Cleveland's pioneering school-voucher program, which granted him close to $1,500 in state funds to help enroll Derrick at St. Stanislaus, a nearby Catholic school. Now Derrick wears a crisp uniform. His reading has improved. And the weekly Mass and Bible study have moved Derrick to say his daily prayers without prompting. Says his dad, "The school is really building his faith...
...skinny, bent figure, nut brown and naked except for a white loincloth, cheap spectacles perched on his nose, frail hand grasping a tall bamboo staff. This was one of the century's great revolutionaries? Yet this strange figure swayed millions with his hypnotic spell. His garb was the perfect uniform for the kind of revolutionary he was, wielding weapons of prayer and nonviolence more powerful than guns...
...more significant 11 pounds a year. Of course, that's only if the chewing is constant over the course of the day, which is defined distressingly as "every waking hour," or about 12 hours per day. Study participants were timed with a metronome in order to establish a uniform chewing rate. "Every little bit helps, I guess," says TIME senior science reporter Alice Park. "But probably the most important weight-loss aspect of gum chewing is that you have something in your mouth all the time, so you can't eat anything...
...dodge more wagons, their drivers frequently asleep, the donkeys as sad as donkeys insist on appearing. There are men in uniform waiting for rides. There are women with groceries and babies waiting for rides. Some of the hitchers raise their hands to a passing car, but most don't. Some express frustration when they feel that a passing car could fit more people (i.e., them), but most don't. Most just watch you pass, squinting beyond you, for the next slowing car or truck. But when a car stops, never is there competition for the ride. Never is there shoving...
...morning, on the way to the town of Trinidad, it's all rolling hills and farms, and the people have been waiting for us. At an intersection 10 miles out of Cienfuegos we stop at a gathering of 20 or so, mostly young men, some in uniform. One gets in, followed by a woman, running--she's just jumped out of another car and into ours. Her name is Maela and, like the vast majority of Cuban women, Maela is a devout spandex enthusiast. She's in a black-and-white bodysuit, bisected with belt, and she's laughing like...