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12. This Morning I ran into Jennie, a ginger-haired young woman who works at the same company I do (should it remain nameless? have I already let its name slip?), this morning while parking our bikes. She sports a bright pink helmet, one of those not meant for cyclists but for skateboarders. It serves its purpose just the same, I bet, and helps her out by making her flashy (and, for those safety-conscious readers out there, quite visible) on the street. We headed into the hall to wait for the elevators to suck us out of level P1 when we spotted what at first looked like a cockroach on the brown tiled floor. She nudged it with her sandal. She asked me, “Is that what I think it is?” I responded, “Looks like a cross between a multivitamin and a button from my ankle-length mauve winter coat from the mid-'80s.” She then told me about a woman in her department who died two days before while eating out. Some sort of violent food allergy. Here's her story (I’m not mentioning this to b...
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9/11 Six Years On, Part Two On September 11th, 2001, I didn’t yet have a cell phone but remember many of those around me trying earnestly to call friends and family both in the city and beyond. Someone must have gotten through, if only for a bit, and heard from his mother that a plane went down somewhere in Pennsylvania. I remember he said “somewhere in Pennsylvania” as though it was some distant, insignificant land. I guess it was and is to many but to me, that’s where my family lives after all. “What?” I barked. “What’s happening in Pennsylvania?” He knew little more than nothing. I was more worried. Watching the towers—smoking and smoldering—collapse was unbelievable. The scene resembled a video of an old building or theater or warehouse being imploded to make way for gentrification. It didn’t seem real; it was especially unreal as I kept reminding myself “There are people in those buildings!” Those buildings are collapsing on the people inside. It was unbelievable. After the tow...
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Kurapaty, Belarus: Site of Stalinist Purges, 1937-1941 Truth be told, I didn’t know the name of this place of mass murder until I did a little research. To me, the name of the place doesn’t matter too much. The name, Kurapaty, however, does matter to those who were killed there, those who will never return from there, and the families they left behind. I am not going to present you with a comprehensive nor historical look into the forests of Kurapaty here. I’ll just tell you how I came to know this place, what I saw when I was there, and what remains in my mind about the place ten + years out. As you know, dear reader, I was in Belarus the summer between my third and last years at UPenn. After our month in the field, excavating a Bronze-age archaeological site near the village of Snydin in southern Belarus, we (me, Alyssa, and Emily; the three American girls) were wasting time in Minsk while our group’s American leader, Walt, “took care of business.” One day we headed to Kurapaty by bu...
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