In the first years we lived in America, my mother could speak only the most basic English, and she often encountered great difficulty whenever she went out. We lived in New Rochelle, New York, in the early 1970’s, and most of the local businesses were run by the descendants of immigrants who, generations ago, had come to the suburbs from New York City. Proudly dotting Main Street and North Avenue were Italian pastry and cheese shops, Jewish tailors and cleaners, and Polish and German butchers and bakers. If my mother’s marketing couldn’t wait until the weekend, when my father had free time, she would often hold off until I came home from school to buy the groceries. Though I was only six or seven years old, she insisted that I go out shopping with her and my younger sister. I mostly loathed the task, partly because it meant I couldn’t spend the afternoon playing catch with my friends but also because I knew our errands would inevitably lead to an awkward scene, and that I would have to speak up to help my mother.