I don’t check any box. I am neither Arab-American, Black, and pushing 70, certainly not young. Nor do I grieve family members killed in Gaza where entire neighborhoods have been razed, hospitals shuttered, and humanitarian aid blocked. I am fortunate not to bear that deep sorrow.

On Indigenous People’s Day, it seems fitting to publish an essay I wrote this summer after a once in a lifetime road trip to the Badlands of North Dakota with my sister. Thanks for reading!

As a volunteer with Companions Journeying Together, I helped carry out a literacy project with incarcerated mothers at Cook County Jail in Chicago. For my recent birthday, I posted a fundraiser on Facebook seeking donations for this small, but mighty nonprofit that operates in 17 jails in Illinois. Many of you have already donated, and I am very grateful for your contributions! If you read this blog post and are inspired to give, thanks in advance for your generosity.

He was wrapped in a wool checkered blanket and lying on a vent in the middle of the sidewalk near Michigan Avenue.