He taught Advanced Placement American literature in my junior year and when I entered his class in the fall of 1976, there was, typically, only one other black student there, another female. That, too, was typical. But that's how it was, even in integrated schools like Shaker High; blacks just didn't take advanced classes. It was normal.

Nor did anybody question the fact that in the entire year of studying American literature, the class was not assigned a single book by a black author.

About midyear we were given an assignment in which we could write on a topic of our choice and read one of two books -- one was by a white author, the other was "Native Son" by Richard Wright. I had enjoyed Wright's novel "Black Boy," which I'd read independently, so I chose "Native Son." I was the only student in the class to do so.

For a teenage black girl thirsting for some reflection of her own reality in literature, "Native Son" was a disaster. I was outraged by the story of Bigger Thomas, who kills two women in the novel, and is executed. I had some difficulty writing the essay, which I mentioned to my friend Ruth. Our friendship was rare in a high school where racial boundaries were rarely crossed, but she was from a liberal Jewish family for whom my race was not an issue. With Ruth, no topic was beyond debate. We discussed everything: race, books, boys and our impending literary greatness. She told me something I didn't know: The essays would be used to determine who in our class would be invited to compete in a national writing contest. She suggested that I discuss my writer's block with Mr. Swenson.

I delivered my conclusions in dramatic fashion to Mr. Swenson the next day. "The book is full of stereotypes; there is no context to Bigger's murdering rampage, no motivation for his brutality. Bigger Thomas is a caricature."

Mr. Swenson grimaced and I thought he understood my frustration. Then he said: "Don't you know what it's like in the ghetto? Don't you have any idea what it means to be black in America?"

I blinked, floored by the sheer absurdity of the question. Mister Rogers was telling me that I didn't know what was going on in my neighborhood. Like he did.

I told him that of the many blacks I'd known who were from the ghetto, exactly none had become double murderers. Doctors and lawyers and teachers, I knew, along with funeral directors, musicians and librarians, but not one homicidal maniac. I laughed, this seemed so obvious. We stared at each other, each of us convinced that the other was unreachable.

To Mr. Swenson, "Native Son" represented the entirety of black experience, a story of unexpurgated violence and tragedy. How did he see me then, brimming as I was at 15, with the expectation of having it all? A mutation probably. Doomed to be a genetic blip on a black screen. As my Advanced Placement modern European history teacher predicted, "Keep getting those A's my dear, and you'll never get married."

I walked down the hall chuckling ("Doomed, I'm doomed") when Ruth came up accompanied by Peter, her latest crush, and asked how my conference had gone. Not waiting for my answer, she beamed at Peter, "Isn't Mr. Swenson the greatest?" Peter nodded soberly.

Eventually, I handed in my paper on Bigger Thomas. I wasn't picked to participate in the English contest, but I had kind of expected that. That honor went to Ruth and Peter. They both won.

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