I’ve started to write this letter at least 20 times in as many years. Just imagine me sitting alone in my office surrounded by crumpled pieces of paper.
During the fall of my daughter’s sophomore year at the most difficult and impossibly demanding public high school in New York City, Sandra, our cleaning lady, came rushing into my room wearing a pained look…
… I am stranded in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The system of highways and buses that brought me here has shut down after a storm draped everything in an inch of snow.
In this sweltering summer of discontent, the Elvis impersonator is wedged into a rhinestone-encrusted royal-blue jumpsuit. Our pores sweat like Corona bottles under the blistering sun.