Where the story begins

Stories have strange beginnings, often written long after events have occurred.

The beginning threads back through time, a line of flight from now reverse engineered to then.

Where does this story begin? Maybe it was at that anti-racist workshop when the facilitator asked us: “Name one thing about your race or ethnicity that you’re proud of.” 

Maybe it began in the shoe store at McAlpins in the 1980s when my seven-year-old self demanded that my Mom call me a new name, or maybe it was the day she left. 

Maybe it began when I took a seemingly random part-time job at a Jewish organization in Philadelphia.

Maybe it began on September 11th watching the Towers fall or on my return from India watching my hair fall or the day I saw rioters storm the Capitol building. Or maybe it was the miscarriage or the marriage? Or when I could no longer walk? 

Yea, that’s probably it.

It begins at the place where I had to find a way; where desperation became determination. I pressed my ear to the door and listened to the inaudible answers on the other side like my life depended on it–because it did. It still does.