The reason I thought I could be a writer.
If I owned a laminator, I would never leave the house.
Every flat surface I could get my hands on would be continually coated in a clear cover of crystal coolness.
I heart laminators.
And the reason I do is the same reason I thought I could be a writer.
Mrs. Harris.
When I was in the 3rd grade at Doyon Elementary School on the North Shore of Ipswich, Massachusetts, Mrs. Harris told me I was a writer.
More than just kind words, she laminated a book of poetry I scrawled with my little hands and I swear I thought I had published a book.
The poems weren’t great. They were very rhymey rhymey like:
In the fall,
The leaves are tall
And man must wrestle with the unrelenting meaningless of it all.
(I might be misremembering that last line.)
But I didn’t care if the poems were silly. I had published a book! Sure, it was held together with string and the penmanship was shaky, but it didn’t matter.
I had published a book!
More than 25 years ago, Mrs. Harris changed the very course of my life by believing in me. She and my parents and other people believed in me.
That’s why I love laminators.
That’s why I write.
That’s why I want to finish raising money for both of those kindergartens in Vietnam.
I don’t know much about that corner of the world, but I do know this…
kids need Mrs. Harris.
In Ipswich, Massachusetts.
In Atlanta, GA.
In the Hoang Then village.
And we’re less than $6,200 away from raising money to build two kindergartens in Vietnam.
Let’s finish.
For the Mrs. Harris who told you that you could be a writer or an accountant or a mom or an anything.
For the kids who won’t get a place to start in life without a wooden desk and a classroom.
Let’s finish.
$5, $10, $100, $500, it doesn’t matter the number.
Let’s finish.
