All this culminated at the start of seventh grade when I met with a guidance counselor, who flapped through my record, sized me up—unkempt, ill-dressed—and told me I wouldn’t be on a college track, but that if I aimed high, cleaned up my act, got myself together, I had a chance to become a clerk in an office, a person who files things. This wounded me. I’m sure I made a joke—“I was thinking poet laureate”—but it cut because I had it in my head that somehow a person in a position of authority who knew things might see beyond the mess and mediocrity, spy some promise in me, hearten me. Save me.
Having been tagged a loser I went on, as children do, to make my loserdom official. We moved a lot, sometimes suddenly, winding up with the nine of us in a two-bedroom apartment over a candy store in Rutherford, N.J. My sister Cookie was older by a year and we blew off school together, wandering around and chain-smoking. She did her hair like Cher, loved the Shirelles and the Ronettes, fashioned herself as a hood. (Decades later it was she who called the day Donald Trump announced his candidacy and told me of his power.) I presented in a would-be collegiate style, I think to cheer myself up. I didn’t go to my high school classes, because I stayed up all night reading novels—Fitzgerald, Hemingway—and biographies. I’d sleep all morning, then creep out of the apartment when school was over and run back in banging doors, shouting to nobody, “I’m home!”
College wasn’t in the picture. On graduating high school I went to work in the world, commuting on a bus to Newark to a job as a clerk at the Aetna Insurance Co. on Broad Street. The next year three unhappy friends and I ran away, pooling our money for an old car and driving south until we reached Miami Beach. We got jobs as waitresses at the Lincoln Road Restaurant. It was near the auditorium where Jackie Gleason taped his weekly variety show, and his June Taylor Dancers used to come in for lunch. Once one came in and sat at the counter and we talked a long time about the news and life, and when I cleaned up after she’d gone she’d left a $20 bill under the saucer. Wow. My fellow runaway Kathy, working the same shift, ran over to say, “She almost left $100. She had it in her hand but hesitated!” Kathy thought I might be sad. No. It was one of the greatest moments in my life. I did have promise! A dancer for Jackie Gleason wanted to encourage it!
We returned to Jersey, I enrolled at Fairleigh Dickinson University at night and made up the classes I’d failed in high school, and at age 20 I was accepted to attend FDU full time during the day. I was a college student. And eager now, finally, to sit in a class and listen, absorb. I worked hard, did well, edited the school newspaper. In coming decades I went on to work as a writer for a radio station, then a network, then for a great president, now a great newspaper.
I’m saying what you already know: Never count anyone out. Don’t count yourself out. Don’t take the world’s appraisal of you and make it your own. Be aware of its appraisal—maybe the world has reasons for its reservations, maybe you should work on them. But maybe the world isn’t giving more than a cursory look; maybe it’s hardly looking at all. Even if it is, its estimation will likely lack a warmth of imagination. You may have to bring your own.


