Something There Is That Doesn’t Love
By Olga Livshin …people like me. Does not like our sweatshirts, pilled, our backpacks, full of bric-a-brac, us, detained, on the floor, airport animals. Something has claimed that my adopted country's autobiography of openness is finished. Something opens the mouths of my Jewish immigrant family to mutter: good for those terrorists to wait, hope their turn [...]