Memoirs

In 1997, I met my husband thanks to an obnoxious coworker. I was a 27-year-old data entry clerk at the California Department of Food and Agriculture. My coworkers were other recent graduates making ends meet. We were friends — all of us except one.

This particular coworker, as she liked to remind us, came from a wealthy family. She didn't talk to us often — that is, except when she felt like bragging, as she did the day she trounced into the office to announce her brother had won a radio.

My c...

“Fuck you!” I declared proudly and slightly belligerently, head held high.My tormentor cocked her blonde head and examined me thoughtfully. “OK.” She finally pronounced. “Where?”My mouth dropped open. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. At all.The night before, I had called my cousin. Of course I did. We had come to America in 1979 when I was eight years old. My family had no English, $300 to our name, and hardly any clothes. But my aunt, uncle and ten-year old cousin had been here for two...