The Whistler may have the power to change people; to make them go home from the theater shaking their head; to help them resolve to forgive…themselves, at least. Audiences will laugh out loud, hold a mirror up to the mirror held up to them. Who might love it?
As an occasional journalist, I love covering topics I know nothing about–although editors understandably want to pigeonhole writers so they have a go-to guy for music, another for sports, a third for coal-mining, or whatever. Part of it is that I place a high value on getting to learn new stuff, which is why my job path has been an eccentric line rather than a rise and rise. Part of it is that the people I imagine to be my audience, my “common readers,” need to have a proxy who’s sufficiently naive that he can ask stupid questions or, if it comes to that, point out that the emperor’s not wearing any clothes. Having recently completed an assignment to write an article on the problems of giftedness and gifted education, while I’m happy to say I learned a lot, I still feel dissatisfied and have been thinking about loose threads. Continue Reading →
The young master pounds on the bathroom door. “Pappa, is Santa Claus real?”
I panic. “Give me a minute.” Continue Reading →
I first met my son in a Guatemala City hotel room. Surrounded by his foster family, all of whom were weeping, I held that little eight-months’ old miracle in my big clumsy hands—these hands!—and, gazing into his eyes, murmured “Me llamo pappas”: My name is Potato. I had been studying Spanish, you see. Continue Reading →