Growing up, Sam never felt quite American. He was not John Smith or Jack Connor, whose parents went to an all American church and constantly hugged them, telling them they were special. He was not American—Americans went to church every Sunday, dressed in their Sunday Best, chanting hymns or whatever they were called while being watched over by a priest, or was it a pastor? Not having really ever stepped inside a church, he wouldn’t know.
Americans ate bacon; his family ate gefilte fish. Americans played sports; he was encouraged to study instead. Americans had parents who kissed in front of their children openly and called each other “darling” and “sweetie” and other (his father would call sickeningly sweet) pet names; his parents were coldly formal and b