It was July 1971. I was taking a summer class in Black-American literature on the campus of SUNY. Professor James walked into the classroom and announced that he had invited a special guest to class and he needed a volunteer to meet his guest in the hall of the administration building and ac company him here.
To my amazement, my right hand shot up as though it had a mind of its own. I never volunteered for anything. I was shy and uncomfortable meeting new people. Realizing I was absolutely the wrong person for this job, I pulled my hand down quickly, but it was too late. "Thank you, David," Professor James said. "You'd better leave now. Hell be arriving any minute." I reluctantly got out of my seat and headed for the classroom door. When I reached it, I stopped. I said, "If I don't know who this person is, how will I recognize him? I'd hate to bring back the wrong guy." Professor James laughed. He pulled me aside and whispered a name in my ear. "Alex Haley," he said. "Really?" I said. I gave a thumbs-up to the class and left the room.
The hall was empty and Alex Haley was nowhere to be seen. My anxiety grew because I feared that I was about to embarrass myself in front of this famous gentleman by asking stupid questions, or worse, by falling unnaturally silent. As I paced back and forth across the polished floor, I realized why I instinctively （本能地） raised my hand to volunteer for this job. This man was what I wanted to be: a writer. He was living my dream. I could learn from him. But deep in my heart, I was worried about whether I had a gift.
It was then that Mr. Haley with a briefcase entered the building. He was a man in his forties, medium height, wearing a sports jacket over an open-collared dress shirt. After we introduced each other, I accompanied him to the classroom building. Across campus, I was struck by how approachable this man was.
注意：
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My fear was replaced by curiosity and purpose.
That was an unexpected answer.
