I. FEAR I’m standing alone, in darkness. As I take a step forward, the floor gives a hollow echo — like a snare dropped from a high rise. I start to run. My footfalls pound the floor, my heart beats in unison with my steps. I run out of breath. There is no exit. No entrance. Just me, stumbling through the darkness. Then, ever so faintly, a second set of footsteps. Danger. The noise draws closer, booming like a timpani gone mad. I can feel the heat of another body, but I’m frozen in place. A hand reaches around my forehead, wrenching my chin up, exposing my neck. Then I see the glint of straight razor. For years, the same dream plagued me. I’d wake up clutching my throat and stumble to my bedroom window, gasping for air. These are not the dreams teenage boys are supposed to have. II. THERAPY By 1999 I was living in Washington, DC. I’d decided to get a Juris Doctorate and become an FBI agent to work on Indian reservations around the country. I wanted to help my dad’s people. The capitol came as a culture shock. Yes, it was still within the borders of the United States. Yes, the people there spoke the same language, used the same currency, and had the same blue passport as me. But, that seemed to be where our similarities dissolved. The Americans of the mid-Atlantic have a different history, heritage, and culture than Americans from the Pacific Northwest. When slaves were erecting the White House in the swamps of the Potomac, my ancestors were still in their long houses, stoking a fire that had been burning for two-thousand years. I always felt adrift in my new home. The dreams about getting my throat slit were becoming more and more common. Sometimes twice a week. Sometimes twice a night. Finally, I decided to do something about it — I sat down for a straight razor shave.

Camillo — the Italian owner of Camillo’s Barber Shop — was as old and wrinkled as the mushy black chairs he sat people in. Walking in the door, I was immediately beckoned toward one of these seats by the man himself. I asked for a shave. Camillo wrapped my face in a warm hand towel for a good spell. We chatted about this and that. He mused about always wanting to make it out west one day. I mused about wanting to go to Italy one day. After the towel came off, Camillo’s fingers massaged hot shaving cream into my face for a few minutes. I could feel myself drifting off into a hypnotic trance. I let out a long breath. Finally the razor came out. I tensed. Camillo put his hand on my shoulder and told me it was going to be okay. I fought to calm myself. Camillo then gently ran the back of the razor down my face, removing the excess cream. Then came the blade. I closed my eyes as tightly as they’d go. I could feel the razor’s edge scrape along my skin. The crrrrrrrrsh of the blade sounded in my ears. Then the next stroke came and went. And the next. I started to relax. By the time the shave was over, my body had loosened. Camillo massaged some aftershave into my skin and sat me up. I noticed that my hands were still gripping the armrests, nails scratching at the leather. I let go and Camillo and I shared a laugh. The old Italian patted my shoulder and reassured me that the next time it’d be easier. I never had that nightmare again.

III. MAKING A CONNECTION A few years later, I started meandering around the world. Travel is tricky. You’re in a foreign land with gestures, rituals, and languages that are often completely mysterious. So you learn a few phrases. You smile and laugh. You listen for other people who speak your language and gravitate towards them. As I moved further east, out of the familiar confines of Europe, things became stranger, more foreign, and harder to get a handle on. I found myself in Moscow around 2004 — a city where the people are gruff and have no problem walking right through you on the metro platform. The police were constantly on my ass, demanding my papers. To be fair Russia had just suffered several devastating terrorist attacks and I can easily be mistaken for an Afghani, especially when I have a full beard. On the way home from work one bitter cold October evening, I took an alternative route from the metro station through the tower blocks. I wandered along the half-frozen, muddy paths as Muscovites scurried to-and-fro in their furs and caps. In Moscow, the tower block buildings are an exercise in utility. Each one will have various concerns on their ground floors: dentists, beer shops, shoe stores, and nail salons.