ast night I got cold and borrowed a sweatshirt and sweatpants from mom since I'd forgotten to bring anything warm. There was supposed to be a late night party, but I didn't want to go dressed like that. I sat in the livingroom to write and then to read for about three hours after dinner. The kitchen and the front porch both filled up with people who were talking, laughing, drinking. I wished I could escape the noise. I wished I could go home, but I'd told everyone I was staying until at least today, and I worried for mom's discomfort if I ran away.

Mom came in after a while to tell me I could be more social. To get me to take advantage of seeing all these people I hadn't seen in so long. She teased me that I didn't like them, and this felt uncomfortably close to the mark. I like them all fine: Sue, Dave, Walter, MaryAnne, Jenny and her husband Matt, Megan and her boyfriend Chris, Sandy and her friend. I have no problem with any of them, but neither did I have any interest in their conversations about jobs, money, shopping, how great it is to be white and American. I felt how strange they all find me, and I felt how long and difficult is the journey from where they live to where I live. The most basic assumptions of our cultures are different. I cannot go back, I cannot unsee what I have seen. I hate their implicit denial even if I understand it.