I would go to the back booth and do my homework until my mother was finished working and my father cleaned up - you know, shut the restaurant down. And occasionally, well, frequently, I would not understand math. My mom would go to a table, a booth up front that had people with business suits on, because she assumed they’d be smarter. She would ask them if they knew math and say to them, “Could you go back and help my daughter who’s having trouble getting her math done?”
So then she would escort them, these strange men, back to my booth and I would turn beet red and would have to sit there while these people explained math to me. I didn’t even know how to talk to someone like that because everyone in my world was Greek or working class.