Reading Janine di Giovanni’s “Profile in Courage” (Vogue, Dec 2006) shoved Oriana Fallaci back to the forefront of my mind - a place she occupied for days after her death in September of this year. In a star-crossed, fate-filled post-mortem call, Oriana Fallaci’s ghost continues to haunt me. With her arms outstretched from the grave, she calls to me the way she beckoned di Giovanni.

Frankly, Fallaci was not an interest of mine. Independent, out-spoken and still trying to define the course of my own life as I slogged through the trenches of entrepreneurial hell, motherhood and the death of my Father, acknowledging I’ve subjugated my gypsy soul to that which is safe but decidely uninspiring, I was blissfully unaware and ignorant of Fallaci’s impact on the world of journalism. And, until she died, unaware of her impending impact on my decidedly cowardly existence.

When she died and the papers carried word of her death along with black and white summaries of her life, I cried. I cried for the woman she was, now passed away. I cried for her courage, positively happy she did not cower in the face of life, spreading before her a feast that would simultaneously sate her and make her ill. The image of my Mother, demanding, loud, bold and relentness, the relectant fighter, filled my head. And I cried for the kindred spirit we shared, the one that still niggles at the back of my neck tantalizingly whispering, “Get up. Go! Do more. Be free.” Tears of recognition rolled down my cheek as I read, “You cannot work and be at home with your child. But you want both,” from the woman who died childless.

And again, as Janine di Giovanni recounted the story of her own “La Fallaci Inspiration,” tears filled my eyes and that kindred spirit called to the gypsy girl inside begging for release.