The second Tuesday came. I wrote on my card， “A stitch in time gathers no moss.”Again， not trusting him， I covered myself with humor， which had always been my best defense against unwanted closeness. The next day the card came back with this note：“You seem to have a sense of humor. Is this an important part of your life？”
What did he want？ What was going on here？ I couldn’t remember a teacher caring personally about me since elementary school. What did this man want？
Now， I raced down the hallway， 10 minutes late to class. Just outside the door， I took an index card from my notebook and wrote my name and the date on it. Desperate for something to write on it， I could only think about the fight I’d just had with my dad.“I am the son of an idiot！” I wrote and then dashed into the room. He stood， conducting a discussion， near the door. Looking up at me， he reached out for the card and I handed it to him and took my seat.
The moment I reached my seat， I felt overwhelmed with dread， what had I done？ I gave him that card！Oh， no！I didn’t mean to let that out. Now he’ll know about my anger， about my dad， about my life！ I don’t remember anything about the rest of that class session. All I could think about was the card.
I had difficulty sleeping that night， filled with a nameless dread. What could these cards be all about？ Why did I tell him that about my dad？ Suppose he contacts my dad？ What business is it of his anyway？
Wednesday morning arrived and I reluctantly got ready for school. When I got to the class， I was early. I wanted to sit in back and hide as best I could. The class began and Dr. Simon began giving back the thought cards. He put mine on the desk face down as was his usual practice. I picked it up， almost unable to turn it over.
When I looked at the face of the card， he had written，“What does ‘the son of an idiot’ do with the rest of his life？” It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I had spent a lot of time hanging out in the student union cafeteria talking with other young men about the problems I had “because of my parents”. And they， too， shared the same sort of material with me. No one challenged anyone to take respossibility for himself. No， we all accepted the parent-blaming game with relief. Everything was our parents’ fault. If we did poorly on tests， blame Mom. If we just missed getting a student-aid job， blame Dad. I constantly complained about my folks and all the guys nodded sagely. These folks who were paying the tuition were certainly an interfering bunch of fools， weren’t they？