IT was a gorgeous, warm, light autumn day, and I’d just had a lovely walk through Back Bay, one of my favorite parts of Boston. I had come to the neuropsychologist after my first year wading through readings and constantly fighting distraction at Harvard, wondering if I might have an attention disorder. (I didn’t.) Now [...]
I shifted uncomfortably in the hard lecture hall seat, bored and barely even listening. The professor was explaining the importance of context in religious studies to the relatively small, mostly undergraduate class. Suddenly, something he said made me bolt up rod-straight in my seat: “So, for example, my context is going to be very different from the context of a snakehandling Pentecostal in Alabama.” My hand shot up like a bolt.