Look for Me There: Grieving My Father, Finding Myself

Many of the best jobs go to people who are connected.

I’d never seen a sunrise like this. It was simultaneously beautiful and reassuring, the promise of a new day. I felt it was Corey telling me he was okay.

If America lost here, the Hue proves that the capitalist system clearly won.

Without Wi-Fi, forced interaction has spurred a camaraderie and togetherness.

I rarely go to places above five thousand feet. It’s

Most parents would be terrified of their kid trying to sneak into Bolivia. But you’re all for it.

In my own way, I was on that path

it’s a nice time of year, see some foliage,

Is he warning me about his own life?

on the Hill I’m surrounded by fellow millennials.

I soon learn that much of the job is actually selling myself internally.

You can have what Dad never did: a sense of comfort within uncertainty.

Getting out of my comfort zone helps me see my own limitations and those of my country. I think that’s why Mom was so desperate for me to travel. What can you compare yourself against if all you know is your small little world?

It’s kind of ironic, no? I’m using money from a death to try to explore life. I’d give it all back for one more day with Dad. Hell, I’d become a hermit for that.

You won’t get anywhere in life just sitting on the sidelines.” Her eyes meet mine. “You can do it.

Paraguayan Catholics believe that the pilgrimage to Caacupé renews their spirit.

I have been using journalism as an altruistic shield, but it is not enough to protect me from thinking I’m letting my life slip away.

The news business never stops. Through tragedy, death, despair, or dysfunction—the news goes on. Even when an autocrat tries to censor it, somehow, some way, the news gets out. Those in the business know this truth, how it’s not just part of the game, it is the game.

We work our way back through the crowd. A few steps behind, holding Dad’s hand, I keep my eyes affixed to the back of his white polo shirt. The outline of his wallet is visible through his back pants pocket, stained into the old khakis. A hanky to wipe his brow creeps out of the other pocket. He clips his beeper tightly to his belt—it’s his post-work Sunday casual uniform. As we move faster through the horde, the sweat on our palms intensifies on the humid mid-Atlantic summer day. For a second, his grip slips and we become disconnected. I fall back a few feet as people aggressively pass by. I never lose sight of the man in the white shirt. Immediately Dad turns around, his face concerned but focused. He jogs back and grabs my hand tight, locking his big thumb and fingers around my wrist. He pulls me in. His other hand now sits across my shoulder, a protective hold. “Buddy, if we’re ever separated, just look for me there,” he says, pointing at a hot dog stand with a big, memorable Oriole bird logo. He pauses and looks me up and down. “But we won’t ever be separated.