conĕdence in her own strength. Béla and I called her the little
ambassador. Mrs. Bower would send her home with books—to help
me learn English as much as to support Marianne. I try to read
Chicken Little. I can’t keep the characters straight. Who is Ducky
Lucky? Who is Goosey Loosey? Marianne laughs at me. She teaches
me again. She pretends exasperation. I pretend that I am only playing,
that I am only pretending not to understand.
Even more than poverty, I feared my daughter’s embarrassment. I
feared that she would be ashamed of me. On the weekends, she came
with me to the Laundromat and helped me operate the machines, she
took me to the grocery store to ĕnd Jif Peanut Butter and a dozen
other foods I’d never heard of, with names I couldn’t spell or
pronounce. In 1950, the year Marianne turned three, she insisted that
we eat turkey for anksgiving, like her classmates. How can I tell her
that we can’t afford one? I stop at Schreiber’s on the way home the day
before anksgiving, and I’m in luck, they’ve put chicken on sale for
29¢ a pound. I choose the smallest one. “Look, sweetie!” I call when I
get home. “We have a turkey. A baby turkey!” I want so badly for her
—for all three of us—to fit in.
Alienation is my chronic condition, even among our Jewish
immigrant friends. e winter Marianne is ĕve, we are invited to a
Hanukkah party, where all of the children take turns singing
Hanukkah songs. e hostess invites Marianne to sing. I am so proud
to see my intelligent and precocious daughter, who already speaks
English as if it is her ĕrst language, happy and bright-eyed and eager,
conĕdently accepting the invitation, taking her place in the center of
the room. She is in kindergarten now and goes to an aer-school
program run by a Jewish man, who unbeknownst to me has become a
Jew for Jesus. Marianne beams at the guests, then closes her eyes,
begins to sing: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so
...” e guests stare at her and at me. My daughter has learned the
rick simeone
(Rick Simeone)
#1