Roseline Glazer


A Yellow Cab Ride to Minsk

By Roseline Glazer

I got into the cab and sat back after telling the driver where I was going. Then I looked to see what country he came from, but the taxi driver’s face didn’t match what I thought was the Russian Jewish name on the license barely visible behind the clouded-glass partition.He was dark and unshaven. He had that surly kind of feel,Read More


A Homeless Babushka’s Shopping Cart

By Roseline Glazer

I’ve never spoken to homeless people. They frighten me. Once, while walking out of a Starbucks in SoHo carrying my coffee, a wild-looking man walked over and began screaming. I ran away as I watched him lunge at me. I had no confidence that onlookers would help me out, and felt lucky my body remembered I had been a sprinter in my youngerRead More



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