On my way out she's still standing in the corner, literally in a trench coat, notepad in hand, and as I pass by she says she's from the AP and can she ask me a few questions, like what brings me out today and what do I think of the two conservative candidates promising each other jobs if either one of them beats the progressive? The sound of a baby stroller wheeling across the floor, Heraclitus saying you never step in the same river twice. Incroyable, I say, because what else is there? and then she asks me my name and what I do for a living, and I don't say anything, French won't save me, I think of Lamar Smith shot on the courthouse lawn with the sheriff just a few feet off, I think of the images out of Soweto that first time, a tide of people surging over the veld, I think of the women in Iraq in their black burqas, their stained fingers held aloft as if they have dipped them in among the petals of some inky blossom, and has it come to that? like on the radio when someone in a far off place won't give their name for fear of what may be done to them. What will happen will happen if we let it happen. Who I am is who I am. So I give her my name, even the middle one that marks me as an immigrant, and I go about my life of privilege in which I cannot remember the last sacrifice I was asked to make.