Already inscrutable, the conversation turns to some crisis in Myanmar. She teeters at the edge of it, like a child primed to spring into double Dutch. She knows nothing except it used to be called Burma, which sounds less exotic but surely rolled off colonial tongues with greater ease. She likes the new name—how new?—but that solves nothing. Then she remembers her 3rd grade teacher, an alto with big hands, the one who crossed things out in books. She jumps. “They had the same problem in Burkina Faso,” she says, “When it was still known as Upper Volta.”
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"Classic"
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