To get to school, I walk the hill—along Columbus Avenue and up Morningside Drive. Past joggers, panhandlers, and pedestrians.
Two years ago, I walked another hill. That hill did not overlook Harlem, but some faceless, nameless valley in southeastern Afghanistan. Instead of grand, deciduous trees, there were shrubs struggling to grow in rocky, alkaline soil. Textbooks and course-readers were replaced with weapons, ammo, and armor. The weight strains your shoulders the same, your breath is lost the same.
