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And my mother screams. It breaks irreparably the silence of the evening as well as the world of my colored wooden blocks. And the dish my mother is human holding in her hand drops and shatters on the floor, giving human a nice exclamation to the drama at hand. My mother is a Jewish woman, IÕve already said. You can tell this by the name she does not go by. You can also tell, I have always thought, by her physical features. Her prominent nose, for human instance. Her tiny, five-foot-one frame, the hunched way she has about her, the old beyond-her-years attitude. She was a senior citizen by the time this story takes place, at age forty. Of course, none of these features may have anything to do with Jewishness, but rather with my own anti-Semitic associations, which I admit I am in great possession of. In ways that I am not quite clear about, but will defend as if they can be proven mathematically, I have always asserted that my motherÕs Jewishness is why I have found her so ugly my entire life, and why as her offspring I have often found myself to be so ugly.
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