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Midshipmen listen as President Trump speaks during a graduation and commissioning ceremony at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis on May 25. During his remarks, the president misrepresented what he’s doing for members of the armed forces, the Associated Press reports. “We got you a big pay increase. First time in over 10 years. I fought for you,” Trump said. But the AP notes, in fact, that U.S. military members have received a raise each of the last 10 years—with several others larger than this year’s 2.6 percent increase. Photographs by @evanvucci@ap.images/@shutterstock

Disgraced movie producer Harvey Weinstein was arrested in New York City on May 25, on charges of rape, criminal sex act, sex abuse and sexual misconduct related to his interactions with two women. Weinstein, 66, turned himself in shortly before 7.30 a.m., local time. He was wearing a suit, appeared to be limping and was clutching several books. Friday's arrest came after a wave of sexual harassment allegations and investigations by @nytimes and @newyorkermag. Dozens of women have accused Weinstein of wrongdoing, including actress and activist Rose McGowan, who said Weinstein raped her in 1997, and Sopranos actress Annabella Sciorra, who said he raped her in her New York apartment in 1992. The initial reporting triggered a barrage of accusations from scores more, including Ashley Judd, Angelina Jolie and Salma Hayek, and led to his firing from The Weinstein Company’s board and a lawsuit by New York’s attorney general. Photograph by Kevin Hagen (@kevinarvid)—@gettyimages

Judy Ackerman, 64, a campaign volunteer for Democratic Senate hopeful @betoorourke, stands outside of an O’Rourke town hall in El Paso, Texas, on May 4. O’Rourke is an Irish American with a Hispanic nickname (#Beto, a diminutive for his first name, Robert, is a child-hood sobriquet that stuck) who spends several hours a week practicing his Spanish. He calls for a single-payer health care system and legalized marijuana. He's aiming to unseat Ted Cruz, the dogmatic and conservative junior Senator who once battled the party establishment, then embraced the President after finishing second to him in the 2016 GOP primary. He has certainly galvanized the grassroots left. Yet more is at stake than a Senate seat. For years, Democrats have hoped that a growing Hispanic population would ultimately turn Texas blue. An O’Rourke victory would not only be one of the biggest upsets of the Trump era. It would signify that demographic change had in fact arrived, pointing the way for other Democrats running in red states. “It’s not us,” O’Rourke says. “It’s the moment.” Read the full story on TIME.com. Photograph by Benjamin Rasmussen (@benjaminras) for TIME

On a Friday evening in early May, @betoorourke makes an appearance at the Mariachi Loco Music Festival in El Paso. Amy O’Rourke had given her husband, who hopes to unseat Ted Cruz as Texas' junior Senator in November, a 7 p.m. curfew. But before heading home he climbs into his pickup and heads into the hills, pulling into the empty parking lot of Sun Bowl Stadium. Below are the train tracks that run along the border, and beyond the endless sprawl of Juárez, orange and purple in the creeping dusk. It’s a city of about 1.4 million people that’s separated from El Paso by a tall, rust–colored fence. A message has been painted in Spanish onto the face of a mountain, legible from miles away: LA BIBLIA ES LA VERDAD; LEELA. (The Bible is the truth; read it.) It’s a version of the border—and of comity—that stands in almost perfect contrast with the one that Donald Trump rode into office two years ago. And O’Rourke is physically at home with it. He is well aware of how Wendy Davis’ previous campaign fizzled and knows it’s a challenge to sustain early momentum until Election Day. “We’ve been smart enough to be honest with the people,” he says. “I just want to be as raw and direct and real as I can—and it seems to be working.” He’ll make history if it does. Read the full story on TIME.com. Photograph by Benjamin Rasmussen (@benjaminras) for TIME

@betoorourke first mulled a Senate run after Donald Trump’s election, traveling across #Texas to sound out voters on the idea. “We never took a poll,” he says. “Nobody from the state party ever asked me to consider it.” The skepticism about his chances of unseating Republican Ted Cruz as junior Senator is rooted in recent history. In 2014, Democratic state senator Wendy Davis, propelled to national celebrity by her filibuster of an abortion-limiting bill, launched a well-funded, widely hyped campaign for governor. She lost by 20 points. Whether O’Rourke can break through will, indeed, depend partly on the changing face of the Lone Star State. From 2010 to 2016, its Hispanic population grew by nearly 1.5 million. Two in five Texans today are Hispanic; by 2020, the state expects Hispanics to outnumber non–Hispanic whites. But demographics alone won’t be enough. Victoria DeFrancesco Soto, a lecturer at the University of Texas at Austin, says the election odds strongly favor Cruz. “For the challenger,” she says, “there’s a path, but a narrow one.” Here, a wall in O'Rourke's campaign office in El Paso. Read the full story on TIME.com. Photograph by Benjamin Rasmussen (@benjaminras) for TIME

Small towns have been @betoorourke’s favored terrain since he launched a bid to unseat Republican Ted Cruz as the Lone Star State’s junior Senator nearly 14 months ago. History says O’Rourke is an underdog in November: Texas chose President #Trump by nearly 10 percentage points in 2016 and hasn’t sent a Democrat to statewide office since Ann Richards was elected governor in 1990. But O’Rourke, a former punk-rock bassist who has spent three terms in the U.S. House, talks more about the future. “The country had come to this cross-roads,” he says. “We were going to be either a country of walls and Muslim bans and the press as the enemy of the people—all this mean sh-t, all this pettiness and paranoia trying to make us afraid of one another—or we were going to be something better.” Read the full story on TIME.com. Photograph by Benjamin Rasmussen (@benjaminras) for TIME

Lacey Carillo Quintera celebrates her #quinceañera by taking photos with her family at the La Lomita overlook in Culiacán, Sinaloa, in February. @kirstenluce photographed the 15-year-old while reporting alongside #IoanGrillo around the homelands of Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán, the world’s most infamous drug baron who was born in the rugged village of La Tuna, in the Sierra Madre mountains, in 1957. Guzmán now languishes in a Brooklyn prison, accused of trafficking drugs worth $14 billion into the U.S.—one of the biggest narcotics cases in American criminal history. Read the full story on the trial on TIME.com. Photograph by @kirstenluce for TIME

Along this stretch of mountains in Mexico, pink opium poppies have flowered since the late 19th century, brought over by Chinese migrants working in mines and on the railroads. When Washington first restricted opium in the 1914 Harrison Act, the illicit drug trade from Sinaloa into the U.S. was born. The poppy pickers became known as “gummers,” or gomeros, in reference to the stodgy black opium paste they extract and use to make heroin. Today many major traffickers hail from the Golden Triangle—as it’s known for its booming drug production—that crosses the Mexican states of Sinaloa, Chihuahua and Durango. Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán has said he first joined the gummers when he was 15, which would be in 1972 or 1973. “There [were] no job opportunities,” he said in a video posted by @RollingStone in January 2016. “The way … to be able to buy food is to grow poppy and marijuana, and from that age I began to grow it, to harvest it, to sell it … Drug trafficking is already part of a culture that originated from the ancestors.” Sinaloa has paid dearly for the wars raging among rival drug traffickers. The dead include not just the foot soldiers, but also ordinary people who may have witnessed their crimes or just angered the wrong gangster. In 2014, gunmen dragged away Roberto Corrales, a 21-year-old compact-disc seller in the town of Los Mochis. After police failed to find him, his mother, Mirna Nereyda Medina, joined other family members of the missing to search for burial sites. Cartel hit men often bury those they kill, leaving clandestine graves amid the hills. In 2017, she discovered a mass grave with fragmented bones that were identified as belonging to her son. “The pain never goes away,” says Medina, a teacher. “It angers me how people make these criminals into heroes without thinking about the harm they are doing.” Photograph by @kirstenluce for TIME

When Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán was born in the rugged village of La Tuna in Mexico’s Sierra Madre mountains in 1957, the houses were made of mud, there was no electricity or running water and mules provided the only form of transport. His mother, photographed in February by @kirstenluce as she sat outside an evangelical church next to her home, described how she and his father scraped by growing beans and corn on the rocky slopes to care for him and his 10 siblings. “They were difficult times. We longed for something better,” Consuelo Loera, Guzmán’s 88-year-old mother, told TIME as she looked out at the homes and farmsteads clinging to the sun-soaked hillside. Known as El #Chapo (or Shorty) for his diminutive, stocky stature, Guzmán toiled as a child to help bring food to the table, hauling sacks of oranges around the hills to sell to peasant farmers for a few pesos. “He always fought for a better life,” Loera said, “even as a small boy.” Six decades later, Guzmán lives in New York City’s highest-security prison, accused of trafficking drugs worth $14 billion into the states. His mother lives not in a muddy shack but in a sprawling brick compound with guards outside on quad bikes brandishing Kalashnikovs. “I just talked to him by telephone,” Loera said. “He is putting on a brave face. He has always been someone who acts as if everything is fine.” Photograph by @kirstenluce for TIME

In the mountain villages in northwest Mexico, many see Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán as a superhero who outwitted both the government and the gringos. Songs, movies, books and TV series all helped propel him to a legendary status. Worldwide, his notoriety is comparable with that of the Colombian cocaine king Pablo Escobar. In 2013, the Chicago Crime Commission named Guzmán as Public Enemy No. 1, the only other person besides Al Capone that the commission has given the title. Guzmán has apparently taken steps to burnish his image in Mexico. Residents here tell stories of how he appeared suddenly at village fiestas, handing out rolls of cash to adoring crowds. “He is a leader, a hero for many people here, because he started from below, very poor, a peasant, and he helps people,” says Baldomar Cáceres, a singer and former teacher from a nearby village. “He builds roads where there is only dirt. He pays for the hospital treatment of the sick.” In contrast, the government has often failed to provide basic infrastructure for these poor, remote villages. But Sinaloa has paid dearly for the wars raging among rival drug traffickers. Here, the shell of a truck is seen on the road to La Tuna, where Guzmán was born. Photograph by @kirstenluce for TIME

Two men observe a shrine to Jesús Malverde, considered the patron saint of drug traffickers, in Culiacán, in Sinaloa, northwest Mexico, in February. The Sinaloa region was home to Joaquín “El #Chapo” Guzmán, whose alleged rise to become one of the world’s most notorious cartel chiefs parallels the shifting war on #drugs. Unlike dozens of other Mexican drug lords who have been extradited to the U.S. in recent years and pleaded guilty, usually as part of deals, Guzmán, after being recaptured in 2016, has declared himself innocent—prompting a trial that is scheduled for September in a federal court in Brooklyn. He now now languishes in New York City’s highest-security prison, accused of trafficking drugs worth $14 billion into the U.S.—one of the biggest narcotics cases in American criminal history. Photograph by @kirstenluce for TIME

At 24, @ArianaGrande is one of the biggest pop stars in the world. Her latest single is called “No Tears Left to Cry,” a triumphant, ’90s-house-inflected pop confection, part breathy vocals and part spunky, spoken-word playfulness. Grande made a song about resilience because she has had to be resilient after a terrorist detonated a bomb outside her May 2017 concert in #Manchester, England, killing 22 people and leaving more than 500 injured. “Music is supposed to be the safest thing in the world,” she tells TIME. “I think that’s why it’s still so heavy on my heart every single day.” What happened is part of the song, but the song is not about what happened. Instead of being elegiac, it’s joyful and lush, and Grande is proud of it, and of herself. “When I started to take care of myself more, then came balance, and freedom, and joy,” she says. “It poured out into the music.” Read more about the rising activists, artists and athletes who are reshaping music, sports, fashion, politics and more on TIME.com. Photograph by @jimmymarble for TIME

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