My mother first discovered Wal-Mart long after she had passed through the customary garage-sale rummaging phase of recent immigrants.
One weekend when I was home from college she showed off her new bedspread—just the right shade of green, the one she had been looking for to match the heavy new drapes. I gave some show of noncommittal approval, and she suddenly admitted, “Do you know where I bought it? Wal-Mart. Is that really bad?”
It had taken her three decades to get this American Dream.