In eighth grade, my regular teacher was Sister Mary Dominica with a wizened face and a witch-like nose. For writing and literature, however, we switched rooms to Sr. Mary Edwynna's class. Her round face and gentle features seemed to exude a warmth we never felt in the other room.

One of the creative assignments that Sister gave us was to choose a picture from a magazine an write a piece from it. I identified with a stylistic picture of the times of a round-eyed girl staring up at the night sky. The writing captured my romantic adolescent melancholia and I was proud. I knew it was good and I knew that Sister would think so too. And when Sister thought a piece was good she called the writer (the unfortunate soul) to the front of the class of 54 eighth graders to read the piece at the podium.

The day arrived. One by one my friends read proudly and we all sighed in admiration. I was to be next and the long walk to the front seemed interminable. I stood at the podium staring at my classmates, staring at my work and . . . cried a blue river. Unable to control myself, unable to read that which I was so proud of, I slumped back to my seat in humiliation.