THE FOURTH PAGE

As I was making my second appearance in the first grade, the other children were beginning to fear the loner in the back row. It had already been acknowledged that I would never be a reader, and certainly not a writer. Even free-form finger painting served me ill. They plied the savage breast with music; I didn’t know the difference between a banjo and a flute. We three-foot altos appeared in the back line of the chorus and were encouraged to be silent.

It was decided that my general bodily state be evaluated by the school doctor who stopped by from time to time for counsel on ringworm and body lice. The authorities thought we might be salvaged for America’s labor force with the clever application of appropriate vitamins and vigorous exercise. She, who examined our eyes, ears, noses, and throats, found me wanting in all of her specialties. Minor prophylactic work could be done with auditory, nasal, and tracheal passages. She deemed the eyes most curable. And she did so with glasses.

My life began.