Science has now proven that if you handwrite something you will remember it better. I learned that firsthand at age 12. My mother had just left husband number four. She spirited me off in the middle of the night to drive from Arizona to New York City. A week later she enrolled me in a chichi all-girls school with the Astors and the Vanderbilts.
I went from wide-open sky and desert to towering buildings and a zillion people. From an Air Force base public school to a college preparatory, private one. From wearing whatever I pleased to being stuffed in a uniform with a white blouse and plaid skirt. From bare feet to stiff, leather loafers. The latter would come in handy.
Academically, I was woefully behind, so had to repeat 7th grade. That was okay because I had already skipped two grades and was still the youngest in my class. What was not okay was that these girls were brilliant. They spoke French and attended Met Galas and Broadway shows. I caught crawdads and followed the …
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