Truman was struck by the mati, the evil eye, and collapsed in the village square on its side, legs stiff, stretched out as if dead. We told other family stories around the table, about the beautiful American white mule named Truman, that my father used to plow the fields so the family would have food. ![]() He was a notorious horse thief and robber who was shot dead by the federal police. And that’s why there was a secret, why they never spoke about it: Such understanding has fallen out of favor here. It was an ancient understanding of shame and honor, and the honor of the clan, which was more valuable than gold. What was stressed to us was that the family name was sacred, that we should never do anything to throw dirt on it, or to allow others to throw dirt on it. ![]() My immigrant family was desperately keen on becoming American, to find our lawful and respectable place here in what was then the great melting pot.
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