My mother is telling a story I’ve heard before, but she tells it with such flair, such utter conviction in the truth of her words that, at thirteen, I’m mesmerized. She glances at me as we walk, ensuring my full attention. “This shicker [drunk] staggers out of a bar, squinting in the sunlight like he’s blind. He tugs his coat over his tuchis [ass] and staggers down the block. A shicker, but he’s singing ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ with this gorgeous voice.” She staggers, head wobbling in mock drunkenness. A skilled mimic, she seems to grow taller, broader, mysteriously masculine. Nobody pays attention; this is Brooklyn, in 1958, and there are stranger things to look at.