My love affair with writing started in my 11th grade English class, with an F-. Yeah, you read that right, “eff minus”. And, as it usually is with things of this nature, the grade was entirely my fault, not that I could convince my father of such a thing. He and my mother arranged a parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Jaffe, purveyor of said grade.
“I’ve seen his notebook, and I agree he earned a F,” my father began. “But, a F minus? That’s an insult!”
“Well,” she replied. “His test was insulting.”
It was, no doubt. Every day for six weeks, she waited on me to live up to my potential, and each day I waited for her to give up. I earned every bit of that F minus.
