For many years I believed I’d be an international journalist. Reporting on wars. And famines. And refugees. And orphans. I was sure I had what it would take. I am sure I have what it would take. I love walking on the edge. When there’s an earthquake. Or tsunami. I want to go. And see. The pull is unmistakable and strong.
I am reading Anderson Cooper’s Dispatches from the Edge: A Memoir of War, Disasters, and Survival. It feels familiar to me. My response is visceral. I haven’t been to Somalia or Bosnia or Iraq, but the airports are no different from those I frequent. Going to the genocide museum in Rwanda as he did on a vacation makes sense to me. I recently did the same thing on a day off.
There are snippets of this book that I’m mentally putting in my pockets. Worn, folded pages from my life. These are mine. They are his words, but pieces of myself. Experiences I’ve had. Things I’ve seen. And I want to keep them close to me.