Upon walking into my family’s beachfront vacation home, I checked my bags, which were full of books by Kierkegaard, Paglia, Lasch, Girard, Huysmans, Teresa of Avila, and Dorothy Day; full of exquisite, exotic treats from the Lebanese bakery down the block from me in Brooklyn, honey from the farmer’s market, fresh feta dripping with brine, loose-leaf Earl Gray, lavender flowers, and ingredients to make a Greek bean dish whose flavor is perplexingly robust and satisfying; full of my laptop, rosary, American Spirits, several witty graphic tees created by crafty Etsy shops, sweatpants and sweatshirts—but not my privilege—at the door. My armory of supplies would sustain me in my noble battle: to hammer out the proposal for the book I hoped (yearned, prayed) someone would publish—my privilege, perhaps, being my most powerful (and necessary) weapon.
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