第1章
The Storyteller Between Worlds: A Life of Crossing Boundaries
As a first grader in Fargo, North Dakota, I stood before my classmates explaining Hanukkah traditions-my earliest experience as a cultural translator. Growing up as one of only two Jewish kids in town created an innate sense of living between worlds, a perspective that would become my greatest professional asset. When I came out at sixteen in Portland, Oregon-during the controversial Measure 9 campaign equating homosexuality with pedophilia-I refused to live a double life, decorating my locker with postcards of hunky men and even attending school in drag for Halloween. This boundary-crossing became my journalistic superpower, allowing me to help people listen across divides. Whether interviewing struggling prison guards or undocumented workers, I found ways to elicit empathy rather than political judgment. My mother jokes I became a broadcaster because I was an ignored middle child seeking attention, while Spanish author Javier Cercas once told me, "You are on the radio because you want to be loved." There's truth there-I enjoy the spotlight. But more importantly, I love handing the microphone to those whose voices wouldn't otherwise be heard, bringing their experiences into your life.
第2章
Nature Boy: The Roots of Curiosity
My first Oregon hike at age eight ended in tears when I encountered a banana slug the size of a Twinkie. I refused to continue, despite my parents' attempts to help me past it. But children adapt quickly-soon I was daring friends to lick slugs to feel their tongue-numbing effect. This transformation from disgust to curiosity to affection embodied my parents' philosophy: the more you learn about the world, the more interesting life becomes.
Neither of my parents had particularly outdoorsy upbringings. My mother grew up in Chicago with a disciplinarian father and a fortune-teller mother who worked carnivals. My father was raised in San Francisco by a widowed working mother, once famously exploding a can of beans by heating it directly on the stove. Yet they raised us with weekends spent hiking the Columbia River Gorge, visiting the foggy Oregon coast, and exploring Mount Hood's alpine meadows.
My mother meticulously documented wildflowers in her hiking journal, consulting field guides to identify each species. My father taught us mushroom hunting-morels in spring, boletus in summer, chanterelles in fall. We learned which were safe to eat and which were deadly. At tidepools, I discovered nudibranchs-tiny, psychedelic sea slugs that felt like punk rock rebels. Birdwatching became my specialty, maintaining a life list and learning to distinguish species by sight and sound.
Our family vacations meant road trips to national parks, using CB radios with code names (mine was "Waiter"-the joke being if I pursued acting, that's what I'd become). This childhood immersion in nature taught me that curiosity doesn't lead to an endpoint but to more questions. The more I learned, the more complex and interconnected the world became.
Though I pivoted to liberal arts in college, my reputation as "nature boy" followed me. At Yale, friends mocked my constant "Did you know..." facts, and my a cappella group nicknamed me "Forsythia" for pointing out blooming plants on tour. I never considered curiosity a skill until journalism students asked me the most important trait for a reporter. Now hosting All Things Considered, I'm paid to ask questions and learn something new every day-just like standing at a ranger's counter with mushrooms, asking which ones might kill me.
第3章
Finding My Path: From Cooking to Correspondence
As my NPR internship with Nina Totenberg was ending in spring 2001, I had no real prospects. Despite applying for PR positions, nonprofits, and a dismal interview for a senator's office, nothing materialized. Nina, knowing I loved cooking despite my cramped living situation with a Craigslist roommate and half-size refrigerator, offered to hire me to cook for a dinner party with powerful guests who might offer me jobs. I prepared an ambitious salmon Wellington for VIPs including Congressman John Dingell and former deputy attorney general Jamie Gorelick. Though the meal was successful, Nina's introduction of me as "one of the best interns" needing employment yielded no offers. Part of me wasn't sure I wanted the Capitol Hill career path anyway-I cared about people's lives and motivations in a way that might not fit there.
My path to journalism surprised those who knew me best, as I'd spent college performing in plays and nearly applied to Juilliard. A friend's thought exercise about the instability of acting life led me to consider alternatives, including NPR. Though initially rejected for their internship program, I later secured a position with Nina Totenberg. As my internship ended, I landed a temporary editorial assistant role at Morning Edition despite my doubts about fitting into journalism's hard-boiled culture. Working unusual hours with constant contract extensions, I finally moved from a pullout sofa bed to my own apartment, with my boyfriend Mike joining me from London.
After working as a temp for over a year, NPR hired me full-time. I treated the newsroom as my free journalism school, borrowing equipment and reporting stories during my off-hours. I created a pitching hierarchy-NPR, Marketplace, WAMU, then freelance sites-and my first story about a "Peace Cafe" bringing Jews and Arabs together aired on WAMU. This piece established themes that would define my career: approaching news through human perspectives, exploring struggles through personal experiences, and focusing on people trying to improve the world. I strategically shared my work with NPR editors, who eventually suggested I try freelancing for the network, starting with obituaries-perfect stepping stones that established correspondents weren't eager to produce.
第4章
Love in the Time of Culture Wars
For most of my adult life, I've started every day the same way. I turn to Mike and say, "Good morning. How are you? It's a beautiful day." Then he repeats the same words back to me. This ritual began during our college days at his parents' house in San Francisco, when I panicked about sleeping in too late. Mike calmed me, saying that's not how we start our day-we start with those words. It became our shared marital password, unlocking whatever lies ahead: goodmorninghowareyouitsabeautifulday.
When Mike and I decided to marry, I felt I needed permission-not from our thrilled parents, who by then spoke to each other more than we spoke to them-but from my employer, NPR. I was about to step into the culture wars when the country was divided on same-sex marriage. I didn't want to be a standard-bearer; I just wanted what my straight friends had. We always knew we'd spend our lives together, saying early on, "If you meet someone better for you than I am, Godspeed. But I don't think that's gonna happen." We figured we'd marry if it ever became legal, though I wasn't holding my breath for the country's permission.
My journey to NPR began with obituaries-the perfect stepping stone from local stations to the national network. I could learn from an editor and report pieces that would air nationally, without encroaching on staff correspondents' territory. I chose actor Hume Cronyn from the pre-written obituary list, calling actress Marian Seldes for a quote. When she spoke about him in present tense, I awkwardly asked her to pretend he was already gone-an artificial request I now question. When Cronyn died in 2003 at ninety-one, my piece ended with his own recitation of Christopher Logue's poem that began "Come to the edge."
In the early 2000s, Mike and I considered marriage a practical necessity for same-sex couples-a way to legally become family and avoid the horror stories of partners barred from hospital rooms during the AIDS crisis. When Massachusetts legalized same-sex marriage in 2003, we waited, then jumped at our chance when San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom suddenly allowed same-sex marriages in 2004. Political commentators predicted Newsom was throwing away his future, though he'd eventually become governor.
Growing up in 1990s Portland, I heard classmates casually toss around "faggot" as a generic insult. Everything changed in 1992 when Oregon's Measure 9 tried to constitutionally label homosexuality as "abnormal, wrong, unnatural and perverse" alongside pedophilia. Though voters rejected it, the debate forced everyone to choose sides. By senior year, I was my high school's only openly gay student, wearing a pink triangle button despite potential bullying.
As a teen, I believed gay stories only ended in tragedy-AIDS, violence, or loneliness-as portrayed in films like "Philadelphia" and "The Boys in the Band." Even "Will & Grace" desexualized gay men. I found community through Portland's queer youth scene at Lambda Rising's Windfire group, connecting with teens from all backgrounds.
Though our San Francisco marriage was later annulled, we had a religious ceremony in Napa Valley in 2005. Despite current anti-LGBTQ legislation and continued violence against queer people, I no longer believe every queer story must end in tragedy. Mike and I still wear our original wedding rings, waiting for the day when our marriage might finally be legally recognized for good.
第5章
The Little Orchestra: Music as Cultural Diplomacy
As a newly out teenager, I finagled my way into the Ron Paul Bakery staff holiday party with a waiter I wasn't quite dating, just to see my favorite local band, Pink Martini. This "little orchestra" of nearly a dozen members played worldly, glamorous music while dressed in dapper suits, beads, and feathers. Their debut album Sympathique, released while I was at Yale, featured their most famous song "Je ne veux pas travailler" and became my soundtrack for hosting dinner parties.
Thomas Lauderdale, the band's leader, arrived at our interview in his vintage 1959 Nash Metropolitan, offering me Pocky snacks I had to decline because it was Passover. Despite my fear that rejecting the snack would alienate him, Thomas proved remarkably warm, spending the day with me and even suggesting we go out afterward. When approached by fans, he engaged genuinely-asking names and making introductions-a quality I would later emulate when listeners recognized me from NPR.
Years later, I hosted both Pink Martini and another Portland band, Blind Pilot, at my DC home for an epic gathering that defied Washington's industry-town stereotype. The night evolved into a piano sing-along where Thomas noticed my singing ability and invited me to record on Pink Martini's next album. Soon after, I made my debut with the band at the Hollywood Bowl before 17,500 people, performing "But Now I'm Back"-a song written specifically for me as Lorenzo responding to his spurned lover Maria.
Despite my fears about how this side gig might affect my journalistic credibility, I continued performing with Pink Martini, recording songs in languages I didn't speak and touring worldwide. When lead singer China Forbes needed emergency vocal surgery, I helped newcomer Storm Large navigate a Kennedy Center performance, transforming "Sympathique" into an impromptu French lesson that delighted the audience.
Though Pink Martini's music isn't overtly political, the band embodies subtle musical diplomacy-singing Arabic songs in conservative Texas or Turkish songs in Greece. The finale conga line during "Brasil" represents Thomas's philosophy of neighborliness, breaking down barriers between strangers through music-a mission that occasionally collides with local customs when performing internationally.
The most meaningful song I've recorded with Pink Martini was "Finnissma Di," an Arabic rewrite of "La Soledad" by Thomas's friend Iyad Qasem, a Jordanian Palestinian filmmaker. Though seemingly about lost love, Iyad explained it expressed a refugee's longing for homeland. Before I sang it at concerts, Iyad would introduce me as "my Jewish friend," creating powerful moments of Arab-Jewish friendship-though in Lebanon, festival organizers later criticized this introduction as "unnecessary."
第6章
Inside the Presidential Bubble
On my first day at the White House in May 2010, I accidentally wandered into the Oval Office during a meeting between President Obama, Vice President Biden, and congressional leaders discussing a Supreme Court vacancy. Mistakenly joining the press pool, I found myself in Pete Souza's official photograph-my tall frame visible in the back like "a meerkat who wandered off the savanna into the Oval Office."
I'd initially declined the White House correspondent position a year earlier, fearing I'd become a mere stenographer to power, churning out formulaic political stories. After five years covering the Department of Justice and investigating Abu Ghraib prison abuse, I worried the White House beat would trap me in pack journalism. Eventually, I accepted the challenge, though my first day-including being told I couldn't even lock my bicycle near the White House-left me questioning my decision.
My first presidential trip aboard "Baby Air Force One" was thrilling despite my nerves. As radio pooler, I collected Air Force One napkins (which later helped me through Israeli immigration) and found small victories like discovering a "Barack the Barbarian" comic in Iowa. The press corps proved surprisingly supportive-when Obama unexpectedly approached during my spaghetti lunch and I couldn't reach my recording equipment, a TV sound engineer winked and covered for me. Seeing the president's razor bumps humanized him beyond the symbol I'd always known.
To differentiate my reporting, I'd escape the press bubble, like interviewing oyster shucker Mark Griffith at Peg Leg Pete's during Obama's Gulf oil spill visit. In December 2010, I was summoned for a top-secret presidential trip to Afghanistan. Security was so tight we could only tell one editor face-to-face and a spouse. No hired drivers were allowed, and we entered Andrews through a back gate. I discovered Air Force One had an identical twin, both parked nose-to-nose in the hangar. Unlike normal departures, window shades stayed drawn and Obama boarded silently-we knew he was aboard only when the plane began moving.
第7章
Witnessing War: From Mount Sinjar to Donetsk
In 2014 London, I watched volunteers plant 888,246 ceramic red poppies at the Tower of London-one for each British or colonial soldier killed in World War I. The undulating crimson sea created a powerful visual representation of loss in a war whose purpose I struggled to comprehend. I hammered my own poppy into the soil, visited the National Archives to read soldiers' diaries, and learned from an 84-year-old that most veterans rarely spoke of their experiences. Living in London gave me perspective on how my American upbringing had sheltered me from war's reality-in Europe, unexploded WWII bombs still turned up in basements, and conflicts that seemed distant in America felt much closer. I realized I'd mentally filed away wars as things happening to "war people in war places" rather than seeing the full humanity of those affected.
By 2015, I volunteered to cover the ISIS conflict in Iraq, heading to Erbil with advice from my friend Alice to "never skip lunch"-a way to show respect for my local team. Erbil welcomed me warmly, eager for Americans to tell stories of Kurdish resistance against ISIS. The city had aspired to become the next Dubai before ISIS halted those dreams, leaving half-built towers dotting the skyline. Despite being just an hour from the frontlines, life felt bizarrely normal-Americans taught English, played trivia, and drank Budweiser at T-Bar while smoking indoors. But the bar manager, a Yazidi named Ayas Murathadji, suggested the Americans might not be so relaxed if they heard what ISIS was doing to his people.
Driving to Mount Sinjar through checkpoints and desert, I felt the weight of both biblical history and present danger. The road was a narrow path of safety with ISIS territory nearby, and my phone pinged my location to NPR security every ten minutes. In Snuny, a town where only 10,000 of 150,000 residents had returned, buildings bore competing graffiti-ISIS tags crossed out and replaced with Kurdish peshmerga claims. I met Wedat Kasim, who had survived five months on Mount Sinjar with her three young children, living on minimal rice and water. When she asked me what would happen to thousands of women still held by ISIS, I had no answer beyond hoping my reporting would keep their plight visible.
At Sharfadin Temple, one of the holiest Yazidi sites, I met Commander Qasim Shesho, a legendary Kurdish fighter who, with just eighteen men, had defended the 800-year-old temple against ISIS for months. They survived on shared flatbread and carefully rationed bullets until helicopters dropped supplies and reinforcements arrived, including Shesho's sons from Germany. Despite overwhelming odds, they preserved the temple while ISIS destroyed sacred sites across Iraq and Syria.
In the village of Harman, I witnessed a villager named Naif Brahem Khadir guarding a mass grave that had been accidentally uncovered by an earthmover. He showed me bullet-riddled clothing and explained how survivors had watched through binoculars as ISIS executed perhaps a hundred people in this valley. The grave remained undisturbed, awaiting UN documentation of what Khadir called "genocide."
第8章
The Professional Marriage: A Partnership Across Borders
My relationship with my producer Rich Preston began with a perfect meet-cute: he performed CPR on a woman having cardiac arrest while traveling to his job interview. When he casually mentioned saving someone's life on the train, I knew he was the one-for our professional partnership. Unlike other NPR international bureaus where local producers are essential for language and cultural navigation, the London bureau operates differently, with NPR paying the BBC for a producer on rotation. After enduring interviews with uninspiring candidates, Rich's competence was refreshing. He loved technology, produced arts programs, and exuded quiet capability with his Zara suit and beloved label maker. Our professional "arranged marriage" quickly flourished into an efficient partnership with flexible workdays, Thames River runs, and cappuccinos at Attendant, a Victorian men's room converted to a coffee shop. Despite his tone-deaf singing of made-up Jurassic Park lyrics, our working relationship thrived into a deep friendship that felt like equal parts little brother, sidekick, and best friend.
Rich and I became an inseparable duo, traveling across Europe on reporting assignments that ranged from serious to whimsical. We interviewed refugees in Calais' "Jungle" camp, where we met people like Alpha Jaigne who built art compounds with messages like "Here we sell immunization shots against racism." In Sweden, we covered anti-refugee extremism before heading to the arctic to report on the Icehotel, where artists carve rooms from snow and ice. In Scotland, we reported on rebounding cod fisheries while Rich secretly understood the local fishermen gossiping about us in dialect. Our partnership even survived an international incident in Ireland when our frustrated tweets about ministers canceling interviews went viral, creating a political firestorm. People often assumed we were a couple, which became an inside joke between us, even as Rich began dating an architect named Farida who referred to me as "Rich's boyfriend" and herself as "the other woman."
When I was unexpectedly offered the opportunity to host All Things Considered, our London partnership faced its end. Rich organized multiple going-away celebrations, including arranging for me to raise the Tower Bridge drawbridge and creating an audio retrospective of my UK tenure. On my final morning, we shared a sunrise meal at Duck & Waffle atop a London skyscraper, both trying not to cry when I departed for Heathrow. Rich sent my new Washington producers a detailed memo with "care and feeding instructions" for me, noting my need for exercise and preference for savory snacks like Trader Joe's peanut butter pretzels. At his wedding to Farida in southern France, I both officiated the ceremony and served as best man, ultimately deciding to keep my planned joke about "finally marrying Rich Preston" to myself, understanding our special connection didn't need public declaration.
第9章
The Third Rail: Reporting on Israel as a Jewish Journalist
I found myself watching an HBO miniseries called "Our Boys" in 2019, gradually realizing it depicted events I'd personally covered in 2014-the murder of Palestinian teenager Mohammed Abu Khdeir following the killing of three Israeli teenagers. The story brought back memories of reporting from Jerusalem during rising tensions that would spark war between Israel and Gaza.
My first days reporting in Israel were eventful from the start. After navigating Israeli immigration with my Jewish credentials and collecting my press pass (along with a suspicious thumb drive I never intended to use), I hit the ground running with local producer Nuha Musleh in Jerusalem's Old City. While interviewing a young Palestinian woman about her fears, we were suddenly attacked with chunks of concrete. A Palestinian boy identified the attacker as an Orthodox Jew, which police later confirmed-challenging my initial skepticism. At the police station, an officer separated me from Nuha and revealed his bias by telling her he only knew of Jews being stoned, unable to see her as a victim. This incident forced me to examine my own potential biases as a Jewish reporter covering the conflict.
Reporting on Israel carried uniquely high stakes, with every word scrutinized more intensely than stories about Brexit or North Korea. Activist organizations constantly monitored coverage, ready to fuel outrage cycles over terminology like "occupied" or "terrorist." NPR had faced protests labeling it "National Palestinian Radio" and endured boycott threats from advocacy groups on both sides of the conflict. For more than a decade, NPR even paid an independent auditor to review their coverage of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The ombudsman once questioned whether my Jewish identity affected my reporting, prompting me to reflect on the impossible standard of "objectivity"-there's no such thing as an absence of identity, and the "view from nowhere" has historically been a straight, white, Christian, male perspective.
After being welcomed to Israel with thrown rocks, I sought a more uplifting story at the Abu Khdeir family's mourning tent. Jewish visitors came to pay respects to sixteen-year-old Mohammed, murdered in retaliation. The family's cultural obligation to show hospitality clashed with their grief and anger-some relatives welcomed the Jewish mourners while others raged against their presence. Under a grape arbor, Mohammed's weeping mother Suha surprised me by saying she wanted the Israeli women there, finding comfort in their presence despite everything. One Jewish visitor, Ruth Danziger, believed "peace will come from the people, not from our leaders."
第10章
Following Refugees: The Human Face of Migration
In 2015, at the height of the Syrian refugee crisis, I traveled to coastal Turkey to document the largest human migration since World War II. In Izmir, I discovered Ali Demir's cafe-not remarkable for its food, but for the Wi-Fi and power strips that allowed desperate Syrian refugees to contact loved ones back home. Despite no financial incentive, Ali offered his bathrooms for washing up and even let mothers with children sleep in his office, explaining simply: "If I put myself in their shoes, I would appreciate it if someone would do the same for me."
As a foreign correspondent parachuting into Izmir with no leads, I felt like I was embodying an ugly stereotype. Starting from nothing, I found my translator Bara Wahbeh through an Instagram comment chain-he was a Palestinian engineer with no journalism experience but spoke Turkish, Arabic, and English. Bara led me to Basmane, a neighborhood that had become a slice of Syria within Turkey, where refugees dried laundry in squares and makeshift shops sold bread and tea. The refugee economy was extortionate-dirty rooms cost $100 a night, and human smugglers charged $1,200 per adult for dangerous sea crossings to Greece, threatening anyone who tried to buy their own raft.
I bought breakfast for Hussein Ramadan, whose raft deflated and sank shortly after launch. Though he survived with his life vest, the traumatic experience made him abandon his European plans. "War is better than dying at sea," he told me. Stories like this happened daily, though it would take months and the photograph of drowned three-year-old Alan Kurdi to finally wake the world to the crisis. I realized parachute journalism wasn't enough-I needed to find someone whose complete journey I could follow, to help listeners see migrants as fully human. That's when I met Monzer Omar, a 33-year-old English teacher who'd left his pregnant wife and two young daughters in Syria while he sought safety in Europe.
I committed to telling Monzer's story, wherever it led. After a failed attempt in Bodrum where he witnessed violence between smugglers, Monzer eventually crossed to Lesbos. My NPR colleagues tracked his exhausting 25-day journey through Greece, Macedonia, Serbia, Hungary, and Austria-sleeping in parks, hiding in cornfields, and narrowly avoiding scammers and thieves. He constantly sent voice memos to his family: "I tell my wife everywhere I go. She lives this with me." When he finally reached Germany, he found safety but faced new worries about residency papers and reuniting with his family, including his wife who was six months pregnant with their third child.
While Monzer struggled mile by mile, I jetted across the ocean with my American passport to reunite with my husband in Washington. A framed artwork in our home-"THE BEST STRANGERS IN THE WORLD LIVE HERE"-took on new meaning as I resolved to explore America with the same curiosity I'd brought to international reporting. When I later visited Toledo, Ohio to report on Syrian refugees in America, I discovered Mohammed al-Refai, one of only 18,000 Syrians admitted during the entire Obama administration. Unlike millions in Europe, America took in a tiny fraction of those displaced. Mohammed arrived alone, separated from his family for reasons the State Department wouldn't explain, and was taken in by four compassionate American college graduates who saw an opportunity to put their faith into action.
