Give the boy a voice, and the man a clue

Last week, I sat in an empty theater while a 20-year-old Italian American practiced being me as an Iranian boy of 12. They were rehearsing for a play based on a story I had written a few years back. The experience was simultaneously mesmerizing and jarring, and I wondered how I ended up here, watching the private memories of my childhood splayed out on a public stage, with my young thoughts spewing out of one stranger and into the ears of more strangers.

For me it was on a lark (not riding a bird, which is confusing for us foreigners) that I submitted some of my stories for selection into the yearlong mentorship program.

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