My Father's Geography
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by Afaa M. Weaver I was parading the Cote d'Azur， hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes， following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo to the hill that overlooks the ville. A woman fed me p？té in the afternoon， calling from her stall to offer me more. At breakfast I talked in French with an old man about what he loved about America—the Kennedys. On the beaches I walked and watched topless women sunbathe and swim， loving both home and being so far from it. At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean， I called my father， and， missing me， he said， "You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea！" |
