Crayon Crisis
The telephone rang. It was my sister, who was working in an elementary school. She told me she used my crayon 1 again.
Over 40 years ago, I sat in my first-grade classroom2 the teacher asked me to go to the principal's office. I was shy. And I hated to be 3 For me, being called to the principal's office was my worst dream.
When I pushed open the door, it was worse than I thought. Seated in front of the principal's desk were my 4 My father walked straight over to me. Holding my drawings, he asked, “Why do you only use a black crayon when you draw?" I couldn't speak.
“5 me your desk,” said my father.
In my classroom, my father pulled out my crayon box from my desk. A single nub of a crayon rested in his palm—it was black.6, my father asked, “Where are the rest of your crayons? ”
I quietly explained that I'd given all the other crayons to friends. I'd been 7 like my parents had taught me. My father let out a deep 8“You were sharing?”
I nodded my head.
Back to the office, I looked at my father, then at the principal—both their faces were 9The principal whispered that I could go. I waved goodbye to my parents. My mother waved back, but I couldn't get my father's 10 he was glaring at the principal.
I learned years later that my father's face was red due to 11 and the principal's was red due to embarrassment. The principal,12 seeing all my artwork done in black crayon, assumed (猜想) that I had deep emotional problems. He had called my parents in to discuss “my 13” and to suggest some psychological counseling (心理咨询).
I was too afraid to say that I only had one crayon left. I was too shy to ask for my “shared” crayons back. Because I didn't 14 up for myself, others assumed the worst.
Today my sister tells her students, “Don't be 15 to speak up. If you don't, I just might make the wrong assumption. Let me tell a story about my sister, when she was around your age...”
