There was no relief, no euphoria—only dull shock. I fell asleep. When I awoke fifteen minutes later, or maybe it was an hour, I was disoriented. When I tried to stand, my legs cramped from my hips to my toes. I was dehydrated.
But that day in the museum, it was I who held her hand in mine. It was my hand supporting her, reassuring her, protecting her.
I suffer from acquired topographical disorientation, or directional dyslexia—I’m always getting lost
Has anything changed at America’s airports? We wear masks—carts are still not free and America is still not hospitable.
“I could feel the tracks on my cheeks burned into my memory from the tears I had shed in Sokolka.”
“Words did not matter. We were celebrating life, we were celebrating community, and trust abounded.”
I’m an infidel. I’m Jewish. I’m an American, and I’m a woman. Any one or all of these factors put me at risk when I visited Iran in the summer of 2004. To my Iranian friend’s more religious relatives, I was an unwelcome guest.
Only rarely was I smart enough to take a pair of stretch black jeans and a couple of black t-shirts and call it good.
It appears to be the rationale for autocrats, whom our president aspires to emulate, as well as the explanation for the mess in the U.S. Congress.
Sometimes it’s just better to take the time to optimize.