“By the way,” the man said, his hand on the door handle. “You’re in America now. You should have the decency to learn the language. If it’s such a problem, go back to your own country.” I hated him, but in that moment I hated my father, too. I felt a terrible sense of shame, seeing the money clutched in the customer’s hand and the dejected look on my father’s face. How could he let me see him like that? How could he embarrass us so badly?
