
WRITTEN WORDS
It Might Be Your Kid
So practice forgiving yourself.
It won’t be your kid because you read the books and took Lamaze and gave them baths, you made their dinners and rubbed their backs and came home in time and did the work. It won’t be your kid because the school was good and piano lessons and dance classes and baseball and soccer and birthday parties. You’re a doctor, a lawyer, your nanny is great and the grandparents are close and it won’t be your kid because they don’t do that. Whatever that is. It won’t be your kid because you searched their room, or swear you don’t need to. It won’t be your kid because of a backyard swing set and the best pediatrician and college counselor and you read the books again and again and again.
I Was a Zionist Until I Fell in Love
Hate is harder when we see each other’s humanity.
It was 1987, my freshman year at The George Washington University in Washington, D.C. The First Intifada had just begun. Young Arabs with keffiyehs around their necks stood at a long table near the cafeteria’s exit, a Palestinian flag hanging behind them.
“Sign the petition! Free Palestine!”