I can laugh now, but for a time I was so scared of my shadow; that I would only venture forth at night, or noon or during an occasional eclipse of the sun. You might guess that I’d be ridiculed, what with carrying a parasol to school on sunny days in spring, but my brother was three hundred pounds of muscle, hung out with the Amboy Dukes and carried, as a weapon, half a tree trunk like a third arm. From the time I was six years old, the other children called me sir.
My mother put an end to it “toot sweet.” While no student of psychology, she took the time to reason with me, as she bent over a steaming laundry tub, in her ragged house dress, like something out of Dickens. She said quite clearly, “Go outside right now, or I will ******* you.” My mother never hit, but I took my sneakered feet down the tenement stairs, so quickly that they barely touched the steps, and then bareheaded, I braved the April sun.