I believe that memories are important. The very first memory that I can recall is of being held in the arms of a university professor with a booming voice and a long pointing stick that he used to whack the blackboard when he wanted to get his students’ attention. To my young eyes that pointing stick looked as long as a pool cue and the professor’s voice was as loud and startling as a jet engine. It wasn’t until many years later that I discovered that that professor had shown the great kindness to hold me in the crook of his arm while he gave his lectures was because it was the only way that my mother could complete her bachelor’s degree in Criminology. She was well respected around the campus and I have no doubt that the professor granted my mom this privilege because he saw in her an ambitious young woman who wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of her dreams. My mother also worked as a security guard on campus to help pay her tuition and she even convinced campus officials to build a tiny booth on the floor of the booth where my mother performed her security detail. From the time that I was born to the time that I was eight years old I was with my mother or in the same auditorium for every memory that I can recall. For a very long time it was the best time of my life.