In 1963, I was in Kindergarten.

The usual curriculum of playing, nap time, snack, puzzles.

And my Kindergarten teacher wanted to hold me back from going into the First Grade.

Now imagine: How underdeveloped do you have to be to be recommended to be held back and to repeat another year of Kindergarten? It wasn't because I was born past the cut-off date of September.

My mother confronted my teacher who discussed my situation with a Psychology 101 textbook on her lap. (It was her first year of teaching.) What made my teacher believe I was ill-suited for First Grade?

Well, for one thing, I couldn't skip. That's right, skip. I could walk, run, gallop, but I couldn't skip.

For another thing, I couldn't cut on the lines with scissors.

Mom (with her Masters in Child Development) pointed out that nobody taught me how to skip and it wasn't an innate skill you're born with. And as for the scissors, she didn't have them lying around the house as she had apprehensions that her curtains would be cut up. So, no experience, no problem.

My teacher dug in her heels and refused to let me go forward.

My mother appealed to the Principal, who was sympathetic but declared that he couldn't overrule his teachers. BUT, if my parents wanted to have my IQ tested and the score was adequate, he'd let that criteria determine my academic future.

So, I was hauled away to Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. And tested by a renowned psychiatrist. And I scored highly. Not genius, but highly.

My mother immediately gave the results to the Principal, who passed me.

I didn't learn this story until well into adulthood.

My mother was my best advocate.