At eight I did not know the word for it like I did at eighteen but I knew the feeling: isolation. Called out, called upon, called to speak I could not. Words eluded me. Often the thought was there but I did not -- could not -- voice it.
Perhaps I am just getting old. Maybe it's the new normal to arrive twenty minutes late, to arrange a meeting so you can spend its duration broadcasting to the world where your physical but not mental presence is and to never snail mail.
There has long been a war brewing in America over a December religious holiday and no, I don't mean the silly non-issue "War on Christmas." I'm talking about the hubbub over how to spell the Jewish Festival of Lights.