When I was six years old, I went to grade one in a rural village in eastern Ontario. I hated it. Everything was unnatural to me and the reality of my life in that place made me sick. I had no idea it could be so bad. I was sick to my stomach every morning getting on a bus that took me to hell. Sitting in an ominous classroom of dead air and even more dead children. The dim fluorescent lights pouring their gloom all over us. And Mrs. Brown would speak. She would write a diary entry on the chart board and we would dutifully copy it into our own diaries. Her dull words became ours. Sitting for hours and hours bent over ridiculous questions from Dick and Jane. I filled out page after page to prove I could count to one hundred – something I learned when I was four. But there was no way of communicating that to Mrs. Brown. I was only one of the herd.