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“Why isn’t it moving?” “We’re stuck.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “Oh, my G–!” That was not a prayer — however much one was needed. The scene, as I recall, unfolded on a Friday night in the late 1980s. We had started the evening with pesto and shrimp at a great Sicilian restaurant in San Francisco’s North Beach. Our group included my wife and me, one of my brothers, one of my sisters and several friends. Over dinner, my sister told us how much she enjoyed her job, teaching sixth grade at the nearby Saints Peter and Paul School. Many Americans…

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