*names, dates, and locations have been changed to protect the guilty The field trip starts at 9:15 Monday morning. That’s 45 minutes later than I usually drop off my son, which means I have 45 minutes to fill. The hard thing to do is a high yield activity (Doctor’s words) like going to the park, reading, or playing with blocks, trains, trucks, etc. The easy thing to do is to put on Thomas and Friends and relax on the couch until it’s time to go. I chose the easy thing to do, lost track of time, and the next thing I know it’s nine a.m. and I still need to shower and pack lunches.  I quickly do both, which leaves me with wet hair and lunches that consist of plain turkey and cheese sandwiches, crackers, and a small bowl of blueberries. The lunches are supposed to be in paper bags and we’re not supposed to bring any Tupperware. I lock the door and carry my son to the car because we are running late. Still carrying my son I hurry into the school as parents, teachers, and kids head out. Several parents volunteered to drive one or more kids to Descanso Gardens. I am one of those parents and I have no idea who my assigned kid is. Turns out his name is Oliver (wink*). He’s taller than my son, but slimmer and not white. I don’t know why that pops in my head considering that most of the kids in my son’s preschool aren’t white, but it does and I wonder what challenges our cultural differences will present. Probably none since I assume all I have to do is drive him there. The scene is controlled chaos. It appears that everyone is moving in random directions, but I sense that many, if...

Today, I made someone cry. I didn’t hit them or shove them down the stairs. I wasn’t screaming at them, brandishing a weapon, or kidnapping their child. I made them cry without any desire or plan to reduce them to weeping in public. I did it simply with words. A vast majority of my life is spent in the company of words. Whether searching for the right synonym, stringing a few together to create irony or a laugh, or toiling over just the right adjective, words to me are what butter, cream and salt are to the chef – the basic ingredients of pretty much everything. Words are also the things in which I take comfort and solace, like my old friends, because in many ways that’s what they are. I’m comfortable with words the way a fireman is running into a burning building to save someone. Which is why I was stunned into silence as the kind, sane and intelligent person sitting across from me in a meeting that was really and truly about nothing important, began to well up and then whispered, “I feel like I’m being attacked” as tears spilled. And in that moment, my insides violently turned themselves inside out. My face burnt with the fire of embarrassment and the bile rose so quickly from my gut I didn’t even feel the sting in my throat, just the sour taste rolling across my tongue. I excused myself, went to the bathroom and vomited. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face with cold water and caught my own eye in the mirror, feeling the deep, abiding, and consuming shame that makes us human. I hadn’t felt it since I was trying to pray the gay away in long sessions, prostrate...