The Color of Social Security traces the myriad ways and interconnected social systems in which racism has been embedded into American social security programs. Drawing on American history, Jon C. Dubin exposes institutionalized processes undermining racially equitable receipt of retirement and disability benefits. Examples include the 1935 Social Security Act, which excluded Black agricultural and domestic workers in order to protect the postbellum Southern racial economic and political order; the 1972 Supplemental Security Income program’s exclusion of persons of color in the US territories, with genesis in 125 years of racialized colonial domination; 1980s criminal justice system restrictions; systemic racial bias in disability decisions in the 1990s; disability eligibility obstacles from “race-norming” in the 2000s; and the misevaluation of Black claimants with sickle cell disease under Social Security Administration regulations since 2015. While exploring these histories, Dubin offers concrete solutions to address racial inequity and create a more equitable future.

Chapter 2 presents an overview of José de Alencar’s oeuvre, focusing on his political and aesthetic objectives, including the role of historiographical discourses in his fiction. The chapter further explores how Brazil’s imperial elites actively sought to construct and disseminate a national identity within as well as beyond the nation’s borders. Alencar, thus, emerges not only as a pivotal figure in shaping Brazil’s national identity following independence but also as the first Brazilian author to achieve international recognition through nineteenth-century translations of his major works. These texts position Alencar alongside Chateaubriand and Fenimore Cooper as a key figure within the historical-indianista novel tradition, which had a considerable impact on its contemporary readership and continues to inform modern fiction addressing Indigenous themes. O guarani is one of the works that Xavier examines with closer attention along with O gaúcho (1870) and Senhora (1875), examples of Alencar’s regionalist and urban novel, respectively.

This chapter critiques dominant frameworks in the study of modern Arabic literature that rely on a “cartographic imaginary” of modernity – mapping texts through binaries like tradition/modernity and East/West. Focusing on Muhammad al-Muwaylihi’s Hadith ‘Isa ibn Hisham, it challenges readings that treat the text as a transitional or hybrid form. Instead, it proposes a formalist approach that centers the concept of athar (trace) to understand how the text constructs historical consciousness and mediates between private and public life. Through episodic scenes, the narrative teaches readers to “see history” in material and social transformations, offering a pedagogical model of literary form. The chapter urges a shift from spatialized readings to historicized formal analysis, positioning Arabic literature as a site of theoretical engagement with modernity rather than a passive reflection of it.

Chapter 12 explores two important novels from the 1950s: Cornéio Penna’s A menina morta (1954) and Lúcio Cardoso’s Crônica da casa assassinada (1959). Both stories take place in regional settings but focus more on the inner lives of their characters. The chapter shows how these novels use dark, neo-Gothic and neo-Baroque styles to reveal deep personal struggles alongside images of social decline. Themes like slavery, patriarchy, power, memory, guilt, and breaking social rules play a big role in these books, as they examine both strong emotions and the heart of Brazil itself. The way time is handled in the stories adds another complex layer that asks readers to think carefully. This difficulty might be why A menina morta and Crônica da casa assassinada aren’t well known today. Still, the chapter argues that readers who take on these novels find the experience tough but very rewarding.

When Constantinople was first laid out by emperor Constantine as a new imperial city in 330 it possessed only a small community of Christians with a bishop responsible to the provincial metropolitan. By the death of emperor Heraclius in 641, it had become the sole imperial capital of the Roman empire with an ‘ecumenical patriarch’ whose jurisdiction covered Thrace, most of Asia Minor and the Caucasus. Christianity had become the religion of the Roman emperor and people. Constantinople was replete with churches and monasteries, had defined its orthodox doctrinal position through a series of church councils, had its operations and even beliefs reinforced by imperial law, and had established a distinctive liturgy and ecclesiastical calendar that combined local and universal events. What marked out Constantinople was the unique relationship of emperor and bishop, emperor and people, facilitated by the physical proximity of palace, church and patriarchate. This chapter traces the development of all these foundation stones of the Byzantine church from the fourth to the seventh century.

This chapter explores the importance of monasticism in the Orthodox church. It begins by outlining the various forms of Byzantine monasticism, from the reclusive (or eremitic) to the fully socialised (or coenobitic) and living arrangements somewhere in between (the lavriotic). The chapter argues that monasticism gave the Church not only a practical way of engaging with the needs of the community—providing various services such as aged care—but also a powerful expression of the symbolic. Using rich poetic evocations of Romanos the Melodist and Kassia on monastic life, the chapter shows how the figure of the monk or nun represented the angelic capabilities of people who dedicate themselves to God. Finally, the chapter explores the emotional difficulties of monasticism. The rigorous ascetic practices and the relinquishment of personal desires resulted in a variety of emotional struggles, including feelings of isolation and occasional frustration. This sentiment is often referred to as acedia or the ‘noonday devil’. In spite of these stresses, the chapter concludes that the monasteries provided a keynote for religious practice that clinches the highest spiritual aspirations of the Church.

Chapter 18 offers a deep examination of José de Alencar’s Iracema, unpacking its cultural and literary significance through three key lenses: the novel’s critical reception, the local and foreign influences that shaped Alencar’s vision, and the portrayal of Iracema as “Brazil’s national poem.” The novel’s reception stretches from the critiques of Sílvio Romero to those of Haroldo de Campos, while its inspirations draw on Rousseau’s philosophy, Walter Scott’s historical novels, and perceptions of the Brazilian nature as expressed by Karl von Martius and Almeida Garrett. These threads weave together to form the novel celebrated as “Brazil’s national poem.” Together, these perspectives create a rich “biography” of Iracema, charting its origins and tracing its lasting mark on Brazilian culture.