It was a spring day when I was in second grade.
My teacher, young and with long dark hair, was the most beautiful woman I knew. She shared strawberry candies with me, and I adored her.
That morning, we had a lesson unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
She sat us on the olive green shag rug on the floor, turned off all of the lights, and turned on a machine that shined a bright light onto the wall in front of us.
And there, in that bright spot of light, she showed us how to make the cursive letter “d.”
And I knew, right then and there, that I wanted to grow up to be a teacher.
So that I too could write on an overhead projector.