For years, we were taught that every demonstration or protest undermines the country and sends a message of weakness to our enemies, but this summer we learned that that was indoctrination by a system that wanted us quiet and obedient so it could continue doing whatever it wanted.
What can you write in the book of a total stranger who might be anything from a serial killer to a Righteous Gentile? "In Friendship," borders on falsehood; "With Admiration," doesn't hold water; "Best Wishes" sounds too avuncular; and "Hope you enjoy my book!" oozes smarm from the capital H to the final exclamation point. So, exactly 18 years ago, on the last night of my first Book Week, I created my own genre: fictitious book dedications.
"How come they get to go in and I don't?" I tried an inappropriately serious response: "Remember how we talked about the social protest in summer? About how not everyone gets the same opportunities?"
"I want Mickey!" the boy whined. "I want to talk to Mickey about this. If he and Pluto knew what that lady was doing, they'd let us in."
“Have you ever seen such a view?” he hugged my mom and pointed to the green hill visible from the living room window.
“No,” my mom replied unenthusiastically.
“Then why the sour look?” my dad asked.
“Because there’s no floor,” my mom whispered and looked down at the dirt and exposed metal pipes under our feet. Only then did I look down and see, along with my brother and sister, what my mother saw. I mean, we’d all seen earlier that there was no floor, but somehow, with all my dad’s excitement and enthusiasm, we hadn’t paid much attention to that fact.
Everything in the photograph seemed to be taken not from reality, but from my childhood imaginings of Poland. Even the expression on my face looked Polish and frighteningly serious. I stared at the image. If I could have unfrozen my photographed self from his pose, he could have walked right out of the frame and actually found the house where my mother was born.
