Last fall, I started working with Franklin, a 7-year-old autistic boy. My job was to help shape the child's behavioral and social patterns, promoting ones healthy to his development, while curbing ones that hinder him.
I had been dating my girlfriend for a month when I told her that my parents were coming to town for their yearly visit from the East Coast. "Do your parents know I'm a shiksa?" Laura asked, smirking sincerely. "Not yet," I said. "I haven't told them about you yet. But don't worry, they'll be cool with you not being Jewish." I said this, unsure if that last statement was completely true.