“This country,” my father told me, “has never been egalitarian. And in our family, when it came to ideology, we somehow always went for the less equal side.”
“But why?” Lev persisted. “Why does a father have to protect his son?”
Lev holds my hand and says, “Daddy, I’m a little nervous.” He’s seven, and seven is the age when it’s not considered cool to talk about fear, so the word “nervous” is used instead.
“No,” my mom replied unenthusiastically.
“Then why the sour look?” my dad asked.
“Because there’s no floor,” my mom whispered and looked down at the dirt and exposed metal pipes under our feet. Only then did I look down and see, along with my brother and sister, what my mother saw. I mean, we’d all seen earlier that there was no floor, but somehow, with all my dad’s excitement and enthusiasm, we hadn’t paid much attention to that fact.