Tashkent, Uzbekistan is my birthplace.  At nine months I was taken on a journey across Europe to an American refugee camp near Munich, Germany.  This is where I spent my childhood.  Where everyone spoke in whispers about whom they had lost to the Holocaust.  No one was immune.  If their families did not die in the Concentration Camps, they had loved ones buried in fields across Europe and Asia.  These stories were as memorable as the places and the tears.

America is my home.   In the early fifties we traveled from Bremerhaven, Germany to the port of New Orléans, Louisiana aboard the USMS Gen Harry Taylor; then by train to our final destination Phoenix, Arizona .  Language and geography are part of my DNA.  I’m not sure when I fell in love with the English language, though I know language feeds my soul.  Human beings who have unusual childhoods have many stories to share.  I am one of those children.