Quite some time ago, in the basement of the Fine Arts building at Penn, someone told me that he wanted to live in a “Third World” country with just him, his wife, and their children. I don’t remember quite what I said in reply–mostly because at that time I was only capable of saying the wrong thing–but that conversation has always stuck with me. It was the first time I had heard someone say they wanted to live in this so called third world, a place people died trying to leave, a place my own parents seemed to gladly leave behind.
Earlier today I went to Central Park to continue reading Brother, I’m Dyingby the Haitian author, Edwidge Danticat. I had started reading it some months before, but let essays and class readings pile on top of it on my desk, with only the slightest tinge of guilt…
View original post 577 more words