The district had assigned me to Murray Hill School in the Cleveland neighborhood known to all as Little Italy. The children in my classroom were mostly immigrants. Some of their fathers were quite rough, and nearly all the parents were illiterate. Few believed that education was worthwhile beyond the fourth grade.

“Pushcart Tony,” Mumma called that kind, though most of them were day laborers, not fruit and vegetable vendors. “Foreigners are taking this country over,” she’d say.

“They didn’t sail on the Mayflower,” I’d answer, “but they came here as soon as they could.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Mumma always said.

This remark was never capitulation, you must understand; nor was it ever an admission of ignorance. You’re wrong, she meant, but I don’t care to argue about it.

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed—that school is right next to a settlement,” she let me know. Alta House wasn’t really a settlement, of course. It was more of a community center with a playground and a gymnasium with a swimming pool. It was named for John D. Rockefeller’s daughter Miss Alta Rockefeller, and it really was quite respectable, though Mumma never entirely believed that.

Each year, I am proud to say, there were two or three children who truly blossomed in my classroom. Often these were the most resistant in September: cocky little boys who wanted to look tough and were afraid to fail, or awkward little girls who hardly dared believe that they’d be good at anything. With no children of my own to love, I had to be careful about letting my emotions run away with me. If my affection and attention were noticed, the boys and girls I liked best would be called “teacher’s pet” and there’d be trouble for them on the playground. I quickly learned to be evenhanded in the classroom.