In 1953 my parents moved our family into a New York City housing project in East New York, Brooklyn. How absolutely demeaning! I hated it and I hated my parents for making us live there. I hated my new neighborhood; I hated my school. I felt so lost. I missed my best friend from the old neighborhood and I missed my grandparents. I missed my old school. I was always a good student in spite of my parents. They were never encouraging. They were never supportive. I didn’t have a quiet place to study. I didn’t have anyone to check my homework. I was the middle child sandwiched between two brothers. I think they held to the old adage that girls didn’t have to be educated; girls were supposed to go to work. School became my sanctuary. There I could excel and be noticed and praised for my accomplishments. In my new school I was placed in the “one” classes; those groupings for bright students. I did all my homework and handed in my reports on time. I sang in the Christmas choir after I washed, starched, and ironed a white dress I borrowed. I came in second in the