I wonder how Papa felt that first night in America, realizing he could never return to France. Leaving the hostel in Times Square to look up at the sky, comforted by constellations the same over Allençon or Paris, where that country boy caroused, seduced by revolutionary politics, prying up cobblestones, burning cars, and screwing dozens of girls, as he told my 12th grade government class later, fearing not “ze AID” but “only ze crab”, sharing his recipe for Molotov cocktails.
“Your dad is cool,” the popular kids said.
No wonder the only thing he taught me was how to flee.
Photo Credit: Stuart Rankin