The first memory I have of a classroom is from the first grade when my teacher asked the class the meaning of “breeze”. I remember the silence in the room as we mulled over the foreign word. I thought I had heard the word before in a “Chicken Soup” story my mom had read to me the other night. So, I shot my hand up in the air and said, “breeze is like the wind”. My teacher smiled at me. That was the first time I felt the surge of satisfaction one experiences when one knows something.

Eleven years later, I was in another classroom reading Morrison’s “The Bluest Eye”. My teacher asked us if we had successfully decoded the primer. I remember the silence in the room as we mulled over the question. I remember sitting at my desk the night before,