Mama had always talked about someday taking me to Macy’s, and I could see how excited she was when she told me that today was the day we were going.

Leaving my sister and brother at school, Mama and I boarded the train at Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn headed to Thirty-Fourth Street in Manhattan. We climbed many steps to reach the elevated train, where Mama placed a nickel for herself in the turnstile and hurried me under it to the other side.

After we boarded and between express stops, I sat straight up on the woven cane seat, rocking from side to side with the motion of the train, turning only my head to see out the window. I counted the numbered posts that popped up one after another, watched tracks disappear under the side of the train, and giggled as we swished by people waiting on platforms at local stations.

My legs couldn’t reach the floor. Sometimes I allowed them to swing freely, opposite the way my shoulders moved. More often, if the radiator under my seat was not too hot, I steadied myself by gripping the seat with bent knees, because Mama was there and would not let me fall.

“Mama, I’m nauseous,” I said, and Mama produced a little wedge of lemon, protected in waxed paper, from her pocketbook. I sucked on it until the next stop, where we hurried onto the platform to allow the motion in my stomach to settle down.

The train ride took an hour or more because we had to get off several times so that I could calm the queasy feeling in my stomach. And Mama knew how far she could push on without dislodging my breakfast. When she saw me looking “green like a frog,” we took a station break. That is how we progressed toward Macy’s.

Not even a flat stick of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit chewing gum—a rare treat that I got for a penny out of the machine on the platform and carefully removed from its wrappings, so delicious at first—helped hold back the lump rising in my throat. It kept me busy for a while, though.

First, I folded the plain piece of paper next to the gum in half, again and again. When I could fold it no more, I placed it in my pocket. I pretended the outer wrapping was a telescope, then fitted it on my finger like a splint and, finally, flattened and folded it and put it next to the inner wrapping in my pocket.

After it became an effort to chew the wad of gum, I chomped it flat with my teeth, gliding it with my tongue against cheek and upper teeth. I could not forget it was there. Taking the wrapper from my pocket, I chewed the gum into a wad again. Then I deposited the gum in the saved inner wrapper, securing it with the second piece until it formed a spongy wad.

I liked the way it felt and kept squeezing it. I saved it to start a rubber band ball when I got home. I owned few toys–marbles, a piece of chalk, a rope, a tiny doll, and jacks. So, I turned anything I could into a toy, like a wrapped up wad of gum.

As the train rocked through the sudden nighttime of the tunnel, we pulled into the Thirty-Fourth Street Station. Mama took me by the hand. We took a cautious wide step across the space between the train and the platform, then went up the stairs and onto the street near Macy’s, where it was daytime again.

We stopped at Nathan’s to fortify me with a hot dog and a drink of orangeade until the return home. That was 12 more cents.

I approached the store warily because many times, my friends and I bounced a ball or skipped rope in rhythm to a chant that went something like this:

I won’t go to Macy’s anymore, more, more.

There’s a great big policeman at the door, door, door.

He will squeeze you like a lemon, you could end up way in Yemen.

So I won’t go to Macy’s anymore, more, more.

I looked around. No policeman was in sight, but a peddler had set up a bookstand and was giving away tiny books. Propped against a chair was a sign reading: “A Free Bible to any Jewish Person who offers to read it.”

“Mama, I want a book,” I said.

My mother’s reply was a quick tug on my hand, and I was whisked inside Macy’s.

“Why can’t I have a book? The man wanted to give me one,” I said.

“Because it’s goyish,” Mama replied.

That was explanation enough. If it was not Jewish, it was not for me, and I did not need to tread into uncharted territory. No sir!

Just like Mama let me know why she never hung the clothes out on a Sunday or on someone else’s holiday.

“It’s not respectful,” Mama said.

Papa’s added emphasis of “You mustn’t” settled any doubt I might have had.

Once inside Macy’s, steered by Mama’s hand, I was awed by the abundance of scarves and more shoes than I ever imagined plus the escalator and the height of the ceilings. The only other shopping I had ever experienced was on the avenue located under the elevated trains near our home, a row of many small stores selling necessities.

I looked about. I had never seen so many things amassed in one place, and so many decorations, nor was I privy to what Mama was looking for. Then Mama walked us to the dress department where she held up many pretty dresses under her chin to see how they looked. They reminded her of the dresses she saw in magazines back home in Austria-Hungary, the ones she fantasized about wearing when she became an actress some day. I loved the feel of the beautiful silky dresses that matched Mama’s blue eyes. She reluctantly placed them back on the rack. She was now a matronly figure—just looking.

One of the counters we passed had all kinds of pretty bottles. Mama held her hand out, and the saleslady touched Mama on the wrist with a dropper from one of the bottles. Best of all, it was free. Suddenly, I smelled the most delicious candy. I thought I would love to have some of that candy.

And too soon, Mama said, “It’s time to leave. I must prepare supper.”

Maybe Mama felt conflicted about the money she spent going to Macy’s. But I felt secure.

Mama had waited a long time to go to Macy’s, and I hoped she was happy looking at the pretty dresses. She might never want to talk about it again, but it was our shared secret. It reminded me of how Mama fed me a bar of chocolate, piece by piece, when I was recovering from scarlet fever.

On the train ride back home, Mama was silent. Like many immigrants, Mama had come to this country with a dream. She thought, with her looks and long tresses, that she might become a famous actress. But at her first pageant, another girl had more striking features, even longer hair. Mama’s dream faded into more immediate concerns—how to pay the rent, how to feed her family—and she only occasionally revisited it at Macy’s.

I was silent, too, but not because I felt sick like I had on the ride there. All I felt was happiness and love. I sat close to Mama, elated that she had let me into her world. She had given me permission to grow. Permission to dream.