, the war of of my grandmother's edna grayson, the solo, the stench of the trophied to desert, the adobe between my fingers in a refugee camp in saudi arabia, the bustle of the jfk airport as i first set foot in the united states. a lovely melancholy of mexico's onset. a taste of steaming maxwell street polish sausage loaded with on the ends on a snowy chicago sunday, the train ride to my brother's house in detroit after i learned of our brothers def and the rate of a moment that brought me here to this one-room helm. i grew up in a city of the shiite muslim in iraq 10 kilometers from of chief we played with ancient civilization steadied by the lights of the historic mosque from the summer heat to the shrine to power its behind it. said the pilgrim from across the middle east were for every day child who had trials and chileans of my siblings and me. my family was characterized by a passionate for both politics and religion. my mother was a muslim and my father was a communist and you can imagine the conflict as a kid brought up by these two polarizing believes. foreigners may not know t