As a law student, I attended a class in civil rights law taught by a black professor, Randall Kennedy. One day, visibly upset, he informed the class that a new book that listed the most influential lawyers of the 20th century failed to mention Thurgood Marshall, the legal architect of the civil rights movement. The class fell silent, shocked by the monumentality of the oversight.

Mainstream white culture has always circumscribed what black culture is, and often blacks have bought into this narrow version that celebrates failure and delegitimizes or ignores black success, frustrating it when possible.

Ten years after graduating from high school, I was planning my wedding when I again had occasion to reflect on my conversation with Mr. Swenson. Ruth flew in from Europe and we went for a fitting of her bridesmaid's dress. Afterward at a cafe, she told me that my paper on Bigger Thomas had impressed Mr. Swenson after all. But there were only two spots for the competition. Ruth was in. So it came down to Peter or me. Mr. Swenson had asked Ruth to choose. Ruth explained that while she knew I was the better writer, she was in love with Peter. She hoped I could understand.

"I do indeed. You got to cozy up with Mr. No Talent and Swenson got to keep his contest an all-white affair. And there was no racism involved because the person who made the decision, the love-starved, 16-year-old girl who was permitted to decide, was reputedly a friend of mine." I hissed, "Yes, I understand."

Ruth reddened. She was an avowed feminist and she'd held onto this because she was genuinely ashamed. I stared at the foam on my cappuccino, which had nearly sunk into the espresso beneath, and took a sip. Still bitter. I wondered if she could ever understand that I was as much in love with the idea of being in that contest as she had been with Peter. Probably more. But I just said: "I could have won, you know."

She snapped, "It seems to me you did just fine." Then she looked away.

I surveyed my past and future. Mr Swenson hadn't stopped me then, and he surely couldn't stop me now. Not without my cooperation. So I said: "You know, you're absolutely right." I tore open two packets of Equal and poured them in my cup, laughing. It all seemed so terribly obvious. "What matters is, now I know the whole story."

Order "Mothers Who Think: Tales of Real-Life Parenthood" from the editors of Mothers Who Think.