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Other Hearts in Other Lands....and Mine

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  There was a new boy who moved down the street from us back when I was about ten. My big sister met him first and was impressed with his gentle humor and international flair. When we met, I knew he was different from the other folks in town. He spoke several languages. He dressed formally. He knew how to dance. Joe became a soul friend of mine. At times, he was my sole friend, and probably there were times I was his. We played volleyball over a clothesline in his backyard. We did swim team together. Later we went to the Spring Fling and Winter Wonderland and prom together. We crammed for French tests and debated current events with one another. Chemistry labs were fun together, except when they were explosive. In college, we met for hours and hours at diners, philosophizing about everything and anything. I am fluent in French because of Joe, and I am confident in Spanish thanks to his confidence in me. I also know my geography thanks to him. You see, before I met him, he had lived...
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Fact Check?

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I put together this jpeg with SOME (not all) of the fact checks from the New York Times about the recent speech before Congress. Note: there is always some fact checking needed, and politicians regularly share some kind of a slant, limiting context or evidence. HOWEVER, the amount of fact-checking need and the degree of vitriol in each error is egregious, even for politicians.  
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Frog or Fraud?

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  When I was in first grade, my big sister researched PT Barnum and wrote additional songs for a school musical version of the show which was on Broadway at the time. I was sooooo proud of her,l— how she took the circus theme song and turned it into a show tune, how she was so confident on stage as the Bearded Lady, and how her songs had such impressive vocabulary. One of the songs, I thought, was about a frog. Remember, I was only six, and so I was at a deficit of background knowledge. To my little girl mind, her lyrics were: “I don’t believe you, you are a frog. I paid my money when I was born. You are all phonies, I know it’s true. I liked it Mister, and so will you.” I wasn’t sure why there was a frog in there. But I knew Kermit was a newscaster. And I also knew more Emily Dickinson than your average kid. I knew that it was dreary like a frog to “tell your name the livelong day to an admiring bog”. So putting those facts together, I assumed that Barnum was like a fake newscaste...
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Transactional or Intentional?

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  Back before email, I was the queen of penpals. The wooden mailbox on our front porch was a treasure chest for me; I would come home from school and find a note from Mandy or Allison or Katy and suddenly my school-day loneliness would fade away. Our letters were more than just conversations about day-to-day life. Mandy gave me insights about friendship. Allison shared wisdom about poetry and wordplay. Katy gave me hope that there was a life after adolescence. Letter-writing was more than just an exchange. It was a way of getting to know one another, and a way of getting to know ourselves. It was a quiet act of intimacy and one of endurance; each correspondence was a piece of our souls that we shared. Our friendships unfurled through our words and annual visits. Forty years later, I still have many boxes filled with yellowed stationery and our friendships are every bit as important as in times gone by. Just before going off to college, I told my neighbor that I needed to pick up st...
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This says everything

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 I just put together a montage of headlines from January through March of 1933. 
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Not Migrants...Refugees

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  Today's deep dive goes into the word "migrant". Remember back when you were in grade school and you learned about people moving to another country? You learned about immigrants who emigrated from their homeland to make a new life for themselves and their families. Maybe the word "migrant" came up when learning about the farmers who came north to California to help with the grape harvests. But moving to a new country was considered immigration. Now, in the news, the word "migrant" shows up again and again. We rarely hear the more neutral term "immigrant" or the emotionally laden terms "refugee" or "asylum seeker." This is by design. It is part of a plan to keep people out of "our" country, and to focus on their impermanence here. It is part of a plan to downplay the dangers many have tried to escape. It is part of a plan to separate today's would-be new Americans from our ancestors who came here for a better...
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Ode to the Bibas Family

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  When they took you, they did not know your name. They did not know you loved the orchard, and trucks, and your hero, Batman. They did not think about your cousins, your aunts and uncles, your grandparents (two of whom they killed.) They just saw you and your baby brother as helpless children, Israelis, Jews. Your father, who knew your name and your penchant for kumquats, worried you would be too loud in the not-so-safe room. He risked his life for you. Your mother held you and your brother tight, fearing the worst, knowing the worst. She would have given the world to protect you and little Kfir, too. When they wrested you from your home, stole you from your paintbrushes and toy cars and superhero DVDs, you were just a nameless, blameless victim. For five hundred days, the world has cried your family’s names: Yarden. Shiri. Kfir. Ariel. Only your father came home, but what is a home without his loves? For five hundred days, we honored your rites of passage, costume-less Purims, un...
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