My father studied Political Science at The New School. 
When he graduated, Earl Warren spoke 
and The John Birch Society protested outside. 
They held signs that read “Little Red Schoolhouse” 
and “Impeach Earl Warren.”
Warren’s speech, as far as I remember, 
was about how cool it was that people were free 
to protest, even if it was him they objected to. 
Afterwards we went out for lunch, and I remember 
my parents laughing because I ordered a hamburger.  
My father had swordfish, I think, and my mom, 
something gross, like steak tartare. 
Some comedian had left a used condom outside 
the restaurant, and one of the workers, 
a Spanish guy, swept it into a dustpan.
By then it had started to rain, and naturally 
we couldn’t get a cab, so we walked to the subway 
and got soaked, like everybody else. 
We were laughing though, so all in all, a pretty good day.
                        

Someone hung a blue dress from the curtain rod 
in the living room. When the wind blew, it swirled 
like a girl at the junior prom, with all the teachers 
watching. My father shook his head. “Get a chair,” 
he said, “and take that thing down.” I’m a little 
afraid of heights, but I figured the drop wouldn’t 
be too bad, so I dragged a chair over and scrambled 
up. It was ok, but I couldn’t undo the knot.
My mother passed me the scissors and down 
came the dress, curtsying to the floor as if we were 
offering a round of applause. I wanted to kick it 
across the room, just to see if I could get it to fly 
up onto a door knob, but I held back, less out of fear 
than pride. I wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, 
and I think my parents were pleased, because 
my mother went right into the kitchen and baked 
a Sacher torte with whipped cream. We sat around 
the table, eating cake. We never mentioned the blue 
dress, and the next day we moved across town. 
On my way home from school, I almost lost my key, 
but in the end I found it in the bushes near where 
my friends had pushed me when I tried to explain 
why my summer camp was called Brooklyn, rather 
than a cool name like Tapawingo, Greenkill, or Lenape.