One day during recess a group of students swarmed around me. I panicked inside, but resolved to keep a composed exterior. A third grader, I was old enough to know that something unpleasant might happen. The spokesperson, a sixth-grade girl, said she had a question for me. I stretched my lips into a tight, tiny smile—and waited.
“We want to know what color you are,” she prodded. “What color do you think you are?”
I vaguely recollected a day’s-old two-sentence conversation about crayon colors with a student. Did that have anything to do with this? I was perplexed, but no longer as anxious.
“Well . . .” I studied my …