Writing, Elementary School

I was born on October 28, 1942, in Washington, B.C., where we were living because my father was in the service. I don’t know exactly what he was doing there. We lived in Washington only six months. We moved a lot, New York, Virginia, Southern California, Nebraska—six months here, six months there. I remember Father studied at Cornell to become an entomologist, so Mother did secretarial work there. Dad was the first in his family to go to college. His father died when he was a teenager. A lot of pride revolved around his Ph.D. from Cornell University both before and after he got it. He finished school when I was in the first grade. I felt his pride in me when I gained academic and leadership recognition in college. I was not expected to do well in college. It was pleasing to surprise everyone, but most of all, my father. By the time I was in eighth grade I had been in eight schools. I remember being new all the time. I made a very poor adjustment at first up in New York. But for three years we lived in a tiny town in Virginia called Holland, where I went to second, third, and fourth grade. I was very shy. I remember the teachers. On the first day there a girl brought me an ice cream bar, and across the classroom sat an Indian boy. We eyed each other a lot. I felt an identity with him because I had been mistaken for an Indian myself. I even made a close friend, Elizabeth Ann Felton—I don’t remember whether she spelled Ann with or without an “e”—I think she became a minister. I remember going to her farm and loving her family. They seemed so stable. In Virginia I wrote a sentimental story. It was the first time a teacher paid attention to me. She told me she wanted me to read it at the PTA meeting. I was very shy, but I did it. As I began reading the paper aloud I got caught up in it and read it well.