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This going back thousands of years, a history I am unfamiliar with, have not researched with any authority, yet know it to be somehow true as I sit down to write, decidedly not alia shawcat a Harris. It is twenty-nine years ago when this tale takes place. It is 1973. It is Fort Greene, Brooklyn. It is nighttime. I am five years old. My mother is forty. She gave birth to me when she was thirty-five, and by thirty-six she was separated from my father. Shortly after the abrupt alia shawcat and unceremonious departure of my father, who also happened to be her husband of ten years, my mother abandoned the name Sayrafiezadeh and returned to her maiden name of Harris. ÒHe gave me twenty-four hours notice,Ó my mother has told me dramatically more than once. And I imagine the scene unfolding in the perfunctory way it does when one is laid off, effective immediately, and escorted from the building.
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