fresh voices from the front lines of change







Every morning, my neighbor and her six-year-old daughter share a bus stop with a terrorist — or a member of a terrorist organization, at least. That’s distressing enough, because my son rides the same school bus. But I recently discovered that the terrorist at my son’s bus stop is me; his Dad, who puts him on the bus each morning. And another terrorist, his Papa, picks him up from school every day.

We became terrorists one morning in February 2006, when we got dressed up, put a coat and tie on our then four-year-old son, and drove to the state capitol.

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