The first time I remember writing an original poem was for a 3rd grade class at the École Active Bilingue in Paris. I learned how to speak English before learning to speak French, but learned to write in French before learning to write in English. The teacher asked the class to write a poem (in French) following the rhyme-scheme of another poet. I did not fully understand the directions and wrote a poem about a Guinea Pig using a rhyme-scheme I invented myself. When I showed the poem to my teacher, she scolded me and said I did not pay close enough attention to the instructions that she explicitly explained. She proceeded to rip up my poem and throw it in the trash. To this day I still remember the first two stanzas of my poem, although the last two stanzas escape me. Thinking back on it now, I find an element of poetic justice in the fact that my first memory of total and abject humiliation coincided with my first memory of writing poetry, a pursuit that today is my most passionate and consuming.