I was in grade school, Miss Helmer, third grade. One day I turned in my spelling workbook where I had colored in black a person's face and next to it spelled the word ‘niger.’ I didn't spell it correctly, but it was obvious what I meant. There were no black kids in my school. My mother, to this day, is notoriously racist. At eighty-nine, nothing anyone says to dissuade her phases her. She grew up in what I imagine was a version of West Side Story. Cicero youth fending off what they saw as encroaching and fear-filled inner-city Chicago. Miss Helmer confronted me about labeling people and thinking she would illicit reinforcement at home; she sent me there with a note. My mother said nothing, just handed it to my stepfather, who sat me down and sheepishly said I shouldn't listen when she makes fun of other people. Their reaction felt like a pass. Yet overall, my teacher's words made the lasting impression.