excerpt from "Beyond the Leash"

I told Kathy about the baby, about Mirella, about Mirella’s mother and how she had found the courage to go all the way to Genoa, leaving her little town in Sicily for the first time in her life.

I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it, but Kathy made a little negative face.

“That’s so sad,” she said. “How could somebody be afraid to leave their town?”

“That’s what they’re taught all their lives. That’s what the culture is like. Everyone around them says it’s normal. She’s never even had a job.”

“But it’s not normal. My mother went to Torino by herself. Then she went to the United States. She had a job. What’s the big deal about getting a job?”

“That’s just exactly the point,” I said. “This is what American feminists don’t understand. Okay, it’s unfortunate that she’s afraid. But the point is, she is afraid. She was terrified. But she did it any-way. That took guts. I’d like to know how many American feminists would have the nerve to do something they’re terrified of doing, something that everybody always told them was bad, just because they think it’s the right thing to do. Getting a job in a culture that encourages you to get a job, and tells you you’re inferior if you don’t have a job, is not exactly an extraordinary accomplishment that requires a great deal of courage.”

Kathy looked thoughtful for a minute.

“That’s true,” she said.

“I mean,” I said, “if you can’t resist the temptation to judge somebody, you should at least judge them in their context, not in your own.”

Kathy thought about that.

“You know what?” she said. “You should be a writer. You can see things like you’re other people.”

“I couldn’t be a writer.”

“Why not?” Kathy insisted. “All you have to do is write and you’re a writer.”

“But I have nothing to say.”

“So? Lots of writers have nothing to say.”

I told Kathy about the baby, about Mirella, about Mirella’s mother and how she had found the courage to go all the way to Genoa, leaving her little town in Sicily for the first time in her life.

I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it, but Kathy made a little negative face.

“That’s so sad,” she said. “How could somebody be afraid to leave their town?”

“That’s what they’re taught all their lives. That’s what the culture is like. Everyone around them says it’s normal. She’s never even had a job.”

“But it’s not normal. My mother went to Torino by herself. Then she went to the United States. She had a job. What’s the big deal about getting a job?”

“That’s just exactly the point,” I said. “This is what American feminists don’t understand. Okay, it’s unfortunate that she’s afraid. But the point is, she is afraid. She was terrified. But she did it any-way. That took guts. I’d like to know how many American feminists would have the nerve to do something they’re terrified of doing, something that everybody always told them was bad, just because they think it’s the right thing to do. Getting a job in a culture that encourages you to get a job, and tells you you’re inferior if you don’t have a job, is not exactly an extraordinary accomplishment that requires a great deal of courage.”

Kathy looked thoughtful for a minute.

“That’s true,” she said.

“I mean,” I said, “if you can’t resist the temptation to judge somebody, you should at least judge them in their context, not in your own.”

Kathy thought about that.

“You know what?” she said. “You should be a writer. You can see things like you’re other people.”

“I couldn’t be a writer.”

“Why not?” Kathy insisted. “All you have to do is write and you’re a writer.”

“But I have nothing to say.”

“So? Lots of writers have nothing to say.”

I smiled. But that wasn’t really what I meant. It’s just that my life has been so ordinary that nothing I’ve experienced would be interesting to write about. I’d have to do research, research about history, about wars, about other cities and countries, about laws, about terrible diseases, about life-threatening illnesses, about different cultures, about psychology and maybe even religion. All I really know is what’s happened right in front of my face and none of that is worth writing down.