Some stories are best realized with the benefit of the distancing that hindsight provides. The full impact is stronger, or the blushing humiliation gives way to clearer illumination. In the moment, or even a few years later, such tales don't yet fit together to create the same big picture that they eventually will when the narrator occupies a completely different place.

My elementary school had an oversized stoplight in the cafeteria. When the light was green, we were permitted to speak with our friends. When it was yellow, we were only allowed to whisper; when it was red, we were to keep our mouths shut. If we were caught talking, we were sent to the back of the room to sit with the special education students - as a punishment.

I was a precocious child. I was reading at three and was well advanced in many other areas of intellect, but I was also one of the most lazy, stubborn little girls one could ever have hoped to meet. If there were two answers to a question, I would purposefully choose the answer that was easier to write, regardless of whether it was the one the teacher wanted. I didn't do my homework. I talked in class.

In an effort to "encourage" me to do my classwork when I was in the first grade, Mom sent boxes of Twinkies to class with me at the start of each week; the teacher was to give me one each day for lunch if I'd done my work satisfactorily. I rarely got my Twinkie. What I got instead was treated to the sight of my teacher eating my Twinkie in front of me. I never told Mom, since I thought that would have been admitting that I wasn't "good enough" for the treat.

As I said in my last entry, I wasn't a popular child. Fair enough; I and the friends that I did have found solace in picking on the few students who happened to fall on lower rungs of the playground caste system than we did. I have vivid, cheek-burning memories of holding hands in a ring around one little boy and skipping in circles, calling him names. He later became one of the first "Goth" people I ever knew, and I always wondered whether our teasing contributed to his sullenness. I'm sure it did.

My teachers were horribly frustrated with me. I could have excelled, but I was happy to simply know that I could do so, rather than actually doing it. I was regularly punished for sneaking books into my desk and reading during class instead of participating. I was bored, and they knew it.

By middle school, I had reformed, but my image hadn't really improved. (Egads, is that what I looked like?) I was happier, though. By then I knew how to press the teacher's buttons just far enough to irk them, but not so far as to be punishable. I was the girl reading the Elmore Leonard novels and gory true crime books for book reports. I played pranks that would have resulted in detentions, had they been played by anybody else. Once I raised my hand in the middle of band class and asked if we were ever going to play anything challenging. The director called my bluff, saying that I couldn't play what was in front of me; I lifted my flute and played the page from memory, never letting my gaze drop from his. A few band members applauded when I finished; most waited for the director (known for his temper) to explode. He didn't say a word. The next day we got some new music.

I didn't have it all together, though. Even while I was gaining back some of my self-respect, so long chipped away by years of punishment and teasing, I still let things slide that hurt. My middle school principal called me "Lucy" and laughed at me whenever I misplaced anything, as children so often do. I laughed, too, and believed him when he called me "scatter-brained." Hey, presto! I was what he said. I still haven't shaken that from my shoulders.

And then I was in high school. I outgrew my gawkishness, but nobody told me, so I continued to think of myself as fat, ungainly, and slightly ditzy. This was my first boyfriend, and I felt absurdly grateful for his attention. He teased me for my studious bent and conservative dress, so I changed both to please him. I remember being distanced from my close friends who couldn't understand why on earth I was bending over backwards to please this boy.

Of course, it didn't work out. I later asked Mom why she hadn't said anything about our incompatibility.

"I did," she said.

The brain only hears that with which it's prepared to deal, I suppose. At the time, I don't even remember her saying one negative word about my budding love. I only remember fighting over curfews. I suppose I couldn't blissfully ignore those bouts. I'm just glad she won; if I had spent later hours with him, he might have persuaded me to allow him...well, further liberties than he already had. I didn't trust my own judgement, so I let him make too many calls. Thankfully, I broke it off before he realized the power he had over me.

I wonder what memories Sam will have of his childhood. I have to be careful not to label him, even in ways I believe are positive. If I call him "My little all-star," will he feel capable of deep study? If I laugh and call him "clown," will he take himself seriously? If he trips, how many instances of sarcasm and joking will cause him to believe that he really is a clutz?

The far future will hopefully see him gain a full understanding of himself. It's the near future that I suppose has me worried. Childhood is difficult enough without added roadblocks created by those who love him more than life.

January's WordGoddess collaboration: "Tell stories from your childhood."