Hilary B. Kern, M.D.

Hilary B. Kern, M.D. I am a Sports/Rehabilitation M.D. located at 119 W. 57th St, Suite 212, NYC 2126867229 Specializing in the Diagn./Tx. of Spine and Extremity Pain incl. Dr.Kern

EMG's,injections, Physical Therapy, and Acupuncture Great results with conservative care!

12/30/2025
12/30/2025

Afar’s team roamed wide in 2025. These were our favorite spots from a year of exploring.

12/30/2025

A common assumption is that throughout history, people have experienced the same basic range of emotions. A radical field of history now challenges this assumption, Gal Beckerman reports. https://theatln.tc/93LEvySV

People tend to imagine that other people “have the exact same set of emotions that we have,” Beckerman writes. “We perform this projection on any number of human experiences: losing a child, falling ill, being bored at work. We assume that emotions in the past are accessible because we assume that at their core, people in the past were just like us, with slight tweaks for their choice of hats and of personal hygiene.”

Rob Boddice, a leader in the field of the history of emotions and senses, mistrusts this universalism, a philosophy that emerged during the Enlightenment, when European intellectuals began to assume that all people share a common nature. Many critics now understand that they were attempting to exert power and order over a world that had recently become bigger and stranger. “By the time we get to our current globalized culture, in which a Korean thriller can win Best Picture at the Oscars and Latin pop stars dominate the U.S. charts, the notion that our emotional registers are all essentially alike feels self-evident,” Beckerman continues.

“Boddice starts with the opposite premise, that we are not the same,” Beckerman writes. “Rather than being a constant—extending across space and time—human nature for Boddice is a variable and unstable category, one with infinite possible shades.”

Although his approach might seem “squishy and postmodern,” Beckerman writes, Boddice’s research layers his own thinking on top of the most recent advances in neuroscience.

At the link, read more about the field of study that is pushing historians to reconsider their assumptions about the people of the past.

🎨: Nicolás Ortega

12/30/2025
12/30/2025

She earned a PhD in anthropology, then used Caribbean ritual dance to revolutionize American performance—creating a technique that fused scholarship with movement and changed dance forever.
In 1909, Katherine Dunham was born in Glen Ellyn, a small town outside Chicago, into a world that had very specific ideas about what Black women could become.
Dancer wasn't on the approved list. Anthropologist definitely wasn't.
Katherine would become both—and in doing so, she would transform American dance, challenge academic assumptions about culture, and create a legacy that still shapes performance today.
She was drawn to movement from childhood, but she was also intellectually restless. In the 1920s and early 1930s, she studied at the University of Chicago, pursuing anthropology at a time when the field was almost entirely white and male.
Her professors were skeptical. What could a young Black woman contribute to anthropology?
Everything, as it turned out.
Katherine became fascinated by a question that white anthropologists had largely ignored: What if dance wasn't just entertainment, but a form of cultural knowledge, resistance, and survival?
In 1936, she received a Rosenwald Fellowship—funding that allowed her to travel to the Caribbean to study dance as an anthropological phenomenon.
For eighteen months, she traveled through Jamaica, Trinidad, Martinique, and Haiti, not as a tourist, but as a researcher. She didn't just watch dances from the audience. She participated. She learned the movements. She studied the rituals, the meanings, the connections between movement and belief.
In Haiti particularly, she was transformed. She studied Vodou ceremonies—religious rituals that combined West African traditions with Catholic influences. She learned dances that had survived the Middle Passage, that had been preserved by enslaved people, that carried ancestral memory in every movement.
White anthropologists had studied these cultures before, but typically with colonial contempt—treating Caribbean and African practices as "primitive" curiosities.
Katherine studied them with respect, as sophisticated systems of knowledge that deserved serious academic attention.
But she didn't stop at documentation. She brought those movements into her own body, into her own artistic practice.
When Katherine returned to the United States, she began creating something entirely new: a dance technique that fused Caribbean and African movement with modern dance and ballet.
She called it the Dunham Technique.
It emphasized polyrhythmic movement—different body parts moving to different rhythms simultaneously. It incorporated hip and torso isolations that ballet ignored. It grounded dancers with bent knees and connection to the earth, rather than the upward extension ballet prized.
It was rigorous, technically demanding, and utterly different from anything being taught in American dance studios.
In the 1940s, Katherine founded the Katherine Dunham Dance Company—one of the first self-supported Black dance companies in America. At a time when most stages were closed to Black performers, she created her own stage.
Her choreography told stories. Not just abstract movement, but narratives about Caribbean culture, about Black experience, about resistance and survival. Her dancers' bodies—Black bodies—took center stage, moving with power, sensuality, and technical precision.
In 1940, she choreographed "Cabin in the Sky" on Broadway. In 1943, she appeared in and choreographed the film "Stormy Weather," one of the few major Hollywood films featuring predominantly Black casts.
But her greatest impact may have been educational.
In 1945, Katherine opened the Katherine Dunham School of Dance in New York City. It wasn't just a dance studio—it was a cultural institution that taught technique alongside cultural history, that insisted students understand the anthropological roots of the movements they were learning.
Some of the most important performers of the 20th century trained there:
Alvin Ailey—who would go on to found his own groundbreaking dance company—studied the Dunham Technique and carried forward her vision of dance as cultural expression.
Eartha Kitt—who became an international star as a singer and actress—trained in Dunham's approach to movement and performance.
James Dean—yes, the actor—briefly studied at the school, drawn by its reputation for artistic innovation.
The school became a gathering place for artists who understood that Black culture wasn't something to be hidden or whitewashed, but celebrated and studied seriously.
Katherine toured internationally throughout the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, performing across Europe, South America, Asia, and Africa. She brought Caribbean and African-influenced movement to audiences worldwide, challenging their assumptions about what "sophisticated" dance looked like.
But she also faced constant racism. Theaters that welcomed her performances refused to let her stay in their hotels. Restaurants served her onstage but not in their dining rooms.
In 1944, she refused to perform at a theater in Kentucky that wouldn't allow Black audience members to sit with white patrons. She used her platform to fight segregation, turning down lucrative contracts when venues maintained discriminatory policies.
Katherine Dunham didn't separate her art from her activism. Every performance was political. Every time Black dancers took the stage moving to Caribbean rhythms, it was resistance against white supremacy's cultural dominance.
In 1947, she completed her PhD from the University of Chicago—becoming Dr. Katherine Dunham. Her dissertation analyzed dances of Haiti, bringing academic rigor to practices that most scholars dismissed as primitive.
She published scholarly work throughout her life, including "Island Possessed" (1969), a memoir of her time in Haiti, and "Dances of Haiti" (written in the 1940s, published 1983), an ethnographic study that remains important to dance anthropology.
Katherine Dunham proved that scholarship and performance weren't separate—they reinforced each other.
Her anthropological research made her choreography culturally grounded and meaningful. Her performance work proved that the cultures she studied deserved serious attention.
She created a model for dance as both art and scholarship, entertainment and education, pleasure and resistance.
Katherine continued teaching, choreographing, and advocating into her later years. In 1992, at age 82, she conducted a 47-day fast to protest U.S. policy toward Haitian refugees—still fighting, still using her body to make political statements.
She died on May 21, 2006, at age 96, having spent nearly a century transforming how the world understood dance, culture, and the power of movement.
Today, the Dunham Technique is taught worldwide. Dancers still learn the polyrhythmic isolations, the grounded movement vocabulary, the fusion of cultural traditions that Katherine created.
But more than technique, she left a philosophy: that dance from the African diaspora deserved to be taken as seriously as European ballet. That Caribbean ritual wasn't primitive, but sophisticated. That Black bodies moving on stage was both art and resistance.
She didn't just create a dance style. She created space for entire cultural traditions to be honored, studied, and celebrated on their own terms.
Katherine Dunham was a dancer, anthropologist, choreographer, educator, and activist.
She traveled to Haiti with a research fellowship and returned with a revolution. She earned a PhD and used it to transform Broadway. She created technique that's still taught nearly a century later.
She proved that the most powerful art comes from deep cultural understanding. That scholarship can move. That resistance can dance.

12/29/2025
12/28/2025

From far-flung destinations to places closer to home, these are the world's 25 most beautiful cities.

                              #❤️
12/28/2025





#❤️

Every Christmas Eve, my mom cooked a big spread. Honey-glazed ham, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, a pan of cornbread that made the whole apartment smell like comfort. And no matter what was happening in our lives, she always SET ASIDE A SECOND PLATE.

It was FOR A HOMELESS YOUNG MAN, Eli, who was sleeping at our local laundromat. He was always in the same corner, under a thin blanket.

My mom never treated him like he was invisible. She cared about him EVERY Christmas.

When I was a teenager, I rolled my eyes the way teenagers do when they don't understand kindness that doesn't benefit them.

Mom found out that he lost his family.

After that, my mom started slipping him more than food. A pair of gloves. A thick hoodie. A gift card to the grocery store.

Once, she offered to find him a room.

"I can't," he said. "I don't want to be a burden."

"Okay," mom said gently. "BUT DINNER STILL STANDS."

Years passed. I moved out. I got a job. I dated, broke up, tried again.

And then MY MOM GOT SICK.

Cancer doesn't care if you're the kindest person in the room.

She lasted a year. A brutal, ugly year where I learned grief can start before someone's gone. Where Christmas lights feel offensive and cheerful songs feel like lies.

She died in October.

By December, I was functioning, not living.

When Christmas Eve came, I stood in my kitchen staring at my mom's old roasting pan.

Then I heard her voice in my head—soft but firm.

"Eli needs some comfort food for Christmas. It's OUR tradition."

So I cooked.

I wrapped it the way she used to.

And I got to the laundromat with my hands shaking.

I walked toward the corner.

And stopped cold.

Because Eli was there.

But not the Eli I remembered.

He wasn't curled under a blanket. He wasn't hunched like a person trying to take up less space in the world.

He was standing.

IN A SUIT.

His hair was neatly trimmed. His beard was gone. In his hand was A BOUQUET OF WHITE LILIES.

And when he saw me, his eyes filled instantly.

"Hi," he said, voice rough. "You came."

My throat locked. "Eli…?"

He nodded once. "Yeah."

"I brought dinner," I said, my heart pounding out of my chest.

He smiled, but it was shaky.

My mouth went dry. "Eli, what's going on?"

His gaze locked on mine.

"Your mom hid something from you," he said. "Before her death, she asked me not to REVEAL IT TO YOU."

The room tilted.

"What did she hide?" I whispered. ⬇️

12/24/2025

We often think swimming is cardio for the body, but neuroscience has discovered that it's actually a potent medicine for the brain.

Unlike running or going to the gym, water has a physical "superpower" and is hydrostatic pressure. When submerged, the water pressure gently compresses the body’s blood vessels, pushing 14% more blood into the brain. It’s like an extra shot of oxygen and nutrients just when you need it most.

In addition, the repetitive rhythm of the arm and controlled breathing induce a state similar to deep meditation and release BDNF, a protein known as "brain fertilizer" that repairs neurons damaged by stress and improves memory.

It's not just exercise; it's a biological "reboot" that repairs stress as immersion calms the nervous system instantly.

Improve mood by releasing serotonin and endorphins faster than ground exercise.

Gives you mental clarity by increasing blood flow, clears cognitive "spider webs". If you feel blocked, maybe swimming is a good option.

Source: Journal of Physiology (Carter Study, 2014) and Harvard Medical School reports.. Educational content.

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