Long Reads

Long Reads is a bimonthly feature, showcasing long-form essays. 

I was an American Jew in Palestine. I wondered if I had made a mistake in coming here, in leaving the relative safety of my hotel in Jerusalem, or the even greater comfort of my Seattle home, where my husband and six-month-old waited for me. But the most dangerous thing about eating lunch in Palestine was that I might have exploded from eating too much.

From a distance, a vintage girl can seem charming and lovably odd until you realize that she literally comes with a ton of baggage.

When my mom died, I made a list of things that made me similar to her: My favorite color was purple, I liked to write, I loved reading, I adored cats, I didn’t wear makeup, my favorite soda was Pepsi, I lived in oversized sweaters. I was 11, so I didn’t add “I love to drink” to the list, but it crosses my mind now whenever I’m at a bar with friends, and I decide to order a cocktail.

It has been part of my life for so long that I have woven it into the fabric of my personality and sense of self.

Don’t you all see how fun this is? I wanted to cry out. Instead, I whispered, “Yeah, b-b-books are weird,” and hid Junie B. Jones in my backpack. My classmates treated books the way I sometimes treated Girl Scout girls: with cold, eight-year-old contempt.

A man faces his estranged father and the Ultra-Orthodox Jewish community he had left behind years ago.