May I ask you a question? 

My 5th-grade teacher thought I was trouble. She glared at me sideways through her thick acrylic glasses. Her nude nylons squeaked as she passed by my desk, ignoring, as always, my incessantly raised hand. She called on Alan or Kay instead. When I persisted in waggling my hand in the air or simply blurting out queries, she moved my desk to the back of the classroom, so at least she didn’t have to see my flailing arm. When that proved no more effective in quashing my queries, she moved me back to the front, hoping, I suppose, to keep me directly under her thumb. When none of these tactics worked, she reported me to the authorities.  

When my name crackled over the intercom, I went to meet with a social worker in the back of the school library. I liked her immediately. We talked about school and Judy Blume and Family Ties and my Odyssey of the Mind team. She asked me lots of questions, and I luxuriated in the chance to speak freely. I reciprocated with questions of my own: Where was she from? Did she have kids? What did she do when they were naughty? How did she feel about Ronald Reagan? Did she listen to Madonna? And, more to the matter at hand, didn’t she think my teacher was unreasonable? I sensed that she liked my questions, answering them fully while looking me squarely in the face. She did not listen to Madonna, but she did like Ronald Reagan.