WashingTina

I have Royal Wedding Fever (RWF).  Far as I can tell, it's not fatal.  It has several symptoms, and based on recent events, I believe it is contagious. Unless you've had your head in a bag for the past few weeks, the Royal Wedding (and the inciting cause of RWF) refers to the nuptials of Great Britain's Prince William and Kate Middleton.  The media frenzy surrounding the wedding reached fever pitch a couple of weeks ago, by my estimation.  It's about this time that my symptoms started to manifest themselves.  Prior to this point, I had shown some early signs, but it was unclear whether I'd develop full-blown RWF. This all started in November when Wills (as those of us who are close to him call him) announced his engagement to Catherine (Kate, to her friends).  It was at this point that I started having delusions of booking a trip to London to "witness" the nuptials.  I began monitoring flights across the pond, but was quickly reigned in by a sensible...

Yesterday I got an issue of Ebony magazine in the mail.  At first I thought it might be a mistake, but no, right there in black and white was my name and address printed on the label.  This struck me as odd.  Aside from the fact that I didn't order Ebony , I'm also not black.  This got me reflecting on the many times in my life when, perhaps, it wasn't so clear what my origins might be.  Let me explain.  Growing up, my neighborhood was incredibly diverse.  Across the street was a family with a Haitian father and Chilean mother (the parents of my oldest friend, the Lady Doctor ). Next door to us was a Jewish family and next door to them, a Palestinian family. And there my family was, in the middle of all of it.  I can't think of a better way to grow up . . . and I think the uniqueness of our neighborhood and the collective memories we all share has contributed to the fact that I'm still close friends with many of the kids I grew up with. ...

April 15 is tax day for most of us here in the U.S., but for my WH, it means a lot more.  Twelve years ago today, he arrived here from Iran.  He told me this story: When I found out I was getting a green card, I didn't know what would happen. I had to wait to find out when my appointment at the U.S. Embassy would be.   They tell you they’ll send you a letter to tell you your package has arrived, and when your interview would be, but I didn't trust it.   I used to call the U.S. Embassy in Ankara every day to find out if my package had arrived.  And I’m so glad I did, because I never received a letter.  The last time I called, they told me that my package had arrived and that my appointment was set. Then I went to Turkey.  I had lived there 10 years earlier for a year, hoping for a Humanitarian Parole visa and I didn't get it, but my memories in Turkey were still good memories.  Ten years later I went back to get my green card and stayed in the sa...