My 7th and 8th grade science teacher had a poster on the wall in his classroom that said “Hang in there, Friday’s coming!” I always thought that was so unrepresentative his real character as he had a passion for teaching and was not marking time waiting for the weekend. I guess I am thinking of him because I am “hanging in there” in this picture taken at Empyreal Dreams.

These planets are at the top of the stardust ribbon leading up from the build. Empyreal Dreams is a fabulous build that honors great works in literature including in this parcel, Les Miserables a book that loomed large in my childhood and was the centerpiece of one of the great conflicts of my elementary education.

I was one of those precocious kids who learned to read long before kindergarten. I don’t remember learning to read because I don’t remember a time I could not read. By the middle of the year in 1st grade I had read all the books in the K to 3 bins and would spend library hour walking along the shelves looking at the titles of the books I would not be allowed to check out until I was in 3rd grade. I saw the title Les Miserables and became obsessed with the idea of reading it – probably because I didn’t know what it meant.

I pronounced it Less Miserables as though it were a mood, having no idea that it was in another language. It didn’t matter that it made no sense, I wanted to read it. I told my mom who was wise enough to realize that anything too mature would be over my head, so she wrote a note to the librarian expressing her permission for me to check it out.

Of course, the librarian being one of those whose passion was not for her work or for reading refused. Her passion was for structure and rules. So I went home and told my mother, who then wrote a note to the principal that met with a similar rejection. (I could have told her that. The principal was a sadist.) My next trip to the library resulted in my being sent to the principal’s office and my mother coming to the school to meet with her.

The principal complained that I had called the librarian a mindless bourgeois functionary.She seemed not to understand that as a 1st grader, that was not some organic phrasing that sprung fully-formed from my own lips. So my mother, to my everlasting pride asked, “Did she get to borrow the book?” When the principal said of course not, my mom replied, “Well then she is a mindless bourgeois functionary.”

My mom took me the country library over the weekend so that I could borrow my own copy which I quite ostentatiously read at school in front of my teacher and my librarian.  I read it all even it some of it bored me to bits. It was the beginning of my rebellion against authority.

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