July 1971, I was taking a summer class in Black-American literature on the campus of SUNY Oneonta in northern New York. Professor James walked into the classroom and announced that he had invited a special guest to class, but his guest was delayed. The class stirred with curiosity and anticipation.

“Who’s coming?” someone asked.

“All I will tell you is that he is the author of one of the books you have read for this class,” he said. “I need a volunteer to meet him in the hall of the administration building and take him here.”

To my amazement, my right hand shot up as though it had a mind of its own. “What am I doing?” I thought. I never volunteered for anything. I was shy and uncomfortable meeting new people. In fact, I was absolutely the wrong person for this job. Realizing my mistake, I pulled my hand down quickly, but it was too late.

“Thank you, David,” Professor James said. “You’d better leave now. He’ll be arriving any minute.”

Seeing no way to back out, I reluctantly got out of my seat and headed for the classroom door. When I reached it, I stopped.

“Umm,” I said. “If I don’t know who this person is, how will I recognize him? I’d hate to bring back the wrong guy.”

Professor James laughed. “Good point,” he said. He pulled me aside and whispered a name in my ear. “Alex Haley,” he said.

“Really?” I said. I gave a thumbs-up to the class and left the room.

As I entered the empty hallway, I criticized myself for volunteering. “Why didn’t you let someone else do this?” Alex Haley was the author of The Autobiography (自传) of Malcolm X. He was also famous for his diligence, perseverance and in-depth thinking.

As I walked across the campus, my anxiety grew. I feared that I was about to embarrass myself in front of this famous gentleman by asking stupid questions, or worse, accompanying him in painful silence. I reached the front steps and climbed them slowly.

As I pulled open the heavy glass door, I realized why I raised my hand to volunteer for this job.

“I’d like to become a writer, but I don’t know if I have the talent,” I said.

I opened the package containing individually wrapped Lego sets for my two boys from Lisa, who was a nurse in New Hampshire. We used to be total strangers, but an incident made us less strange.

Last August, we drove from our home in Washington, DC, to New Hampshire. It was just me, my husband, and our two kids out for a nice, safe, socially distanced week away.

We had hiked about half a mile to a popular spot called Diana’s Baths, where the water falls off a series of flat huge rocks like an M. C. Escher drawing. The baths were full of families, so we made our way to one of the upper levels of rock to keep our distance.

Both where we sat and down below, the water fell into small pools, where kids in swimsuits were splashing around. I watched as some younger parents nervously protected their toddlers away from the rocks edges, feeling grateful that I was out of that stage, for our kids, at six and eight, could navigate their physical space with more confidence. Don’t get me wrong: I was still terrified as I saw my two boys jump between the slippery rocks. But soon I relaxed and we were all having fun, splashing in the pools, my kids laughing as my husband swam under the cold running water. Then, seconds later, every fear I’d ever had rose to the surface.

I turned and saw my son Wyatt sitting down between two rocks in a fast-moving stream. I yelled at him to get out and he yelled back something that I couldn’t hear, and then he disappeared over the edge!

All I remember from the moments after is screaming, over and over! “Somebody help my son! ” I didn’t even know what help he needed, because I couldn’t force myself to look.

My husband was already sprinting down the rocks. I continued to scream for help. However, it did not work. Everyone else looked on from a distance, too afraid or unbothered to help.

A brown-haired women with a mask was the only exception.

The rescue team finally came and took Wyatt out of the park on a stretcher (担架).