Dear Igor . . . the last name on the list
Time after time, I have stood on the virtual doorsteps of people in the middle of lives parallel to my …
Time after time, I have stood on the virtual doorsteps of people in the middle of lives parallel to my …
What I remember about the morning of September 11 is how blue the sky was above the Twin Towers on my TV screen. And, I remember the feeling of revulsion so familiar to me from growing up in a tiny country where every day is an anniversary of some atrocity.
Until that morning, I had taken for granted the sense of security I felt as an immigrant who had traded in Northern Ireland for the United States. Foolishly, I had too quickly dropped my guard, almost forgetting anything can happen. I no longer felt the need to reassure myself that the sound of a car backfiring on the freeway was not a gunshot, that a clap of Monsoon thunder was not a bomb timed to go off in the heart of a village on the busiest day of the year, that a shopping bag left behind on the bus was not packed with explosives.
Flanked by row upon row of flagpoles set five feet apart, we can stretch out our arms to touch two lives at …
I have yet to be disappointed by what happens when my online world collides with its ‘real’ counterpart. Landing on the …