
By Stacy Torres
My father was from Chile. Five years after his death, I’ve adapted to the past tense when referring to him, but it’s still not automatic. Was. Every time that three-letter verb of no longer being catches in my throat, I notice the slight delay even if my conversation partners don’t.
I remember nothing about World Cup 2022, the year after he died, which remains a blur of loss. One year is nothing when it comes to grief, as Saul Bellow so eloquently puts it: “Losing a parent is something like driving through a plate-glass window. You didn’t know it was there until it shattered, and then for years to come you’re picking up the pieces—down to the last glassy splinter.”
Continue reading “Global Culture, Immigration, and the World Cup”


