Even before I wrote those stories in fourth grade, now I remember: There was that essay in second grade about what we wanted to be when we grew up. Career orientation at a tender age. My essay was about how I wanted to be just like my mother when I grew up. I would look like her, cook and clean like her, and have a child just like me. Oppressed and devoid of ambition. But my teacher was moved. She took it as a statement of my filial love and respect. I got to skip third grade.