I had rewritten my note cards four times before stepping behind that wooden podium.
The assignment was about a hero, and choosing mine had been easy.
In the photograph I brought, my mother stood beneath a gray Nevada sky, her hair tucked under a helmet.
She looked younger, with a small, tired smile. One hand rested on the aircraft beside her, a gesture so familiar and gentle that it reminded me of someone touching an old friend’s shoulder.
Then my teacher reduced her to a punch line, and the room followed along.
There was nothing shameful about being a secretary; the cruelty was in treating my mother’s identity as something laughable and my admiration as something foolish.
My hands shook over the cards. I had come prepared to explain why Captain Rachel Miller was my hero—not to hear an auditorium dismiss the woman whose photograph I had so proudly chosen.
