At the nighttime market, two or three men had shoved my mother, grabbed her grocery-shopping money from her fist, and shouted at her to 'go back to Bangladesh'.

Later, when the audience had dispersed, Ma sat in the house with her head in her hands. When she looked up, after long minutes, she said, 'they were touching me here, touching me here. Oh my girl, my gold, don’t make me tell you.'

I saw my mother then as a woman. I felt her humiliation. And where I had always felt shame, I now felt white-hot anger. Anger crept into my jaws and I had to gnash my teeth to be calm.

So I made a decision. Whether it was a good decision or a bad decision, I no longer know.