I first read “At Home, Adrift” eight months into the pandemic. For 240-plus days, I had been living, working, and parenting in an increasingly cramped, relentless space. I am raising a family that is a lot like the one I grew up in—multilingual, enthusiastic, and loud. In normal circumstances, our home feels like our own cozy babel. After 240-plus days alone together, that babel began to feel a lot like lunacy.

And then I read Rashi Rohatgi’s essay, and the lunacy reverted back to normalcy. I’ve always believed that great writing highlights what the world often distracts us from appreciating. “At Home, Adrift” did this for me—its evocation of the strains and desires that come with living among people whose language may never be yours, of loving people whose language you want to be yours too. 

This is the kind of writing that helps me appreciate the babels I live for, no matter how loony they sometimes make me feel.