Mrs. Prowell was short and stout. She arranged her wiry gray hair in a makeshift bun at the nape of her neck, and wore the same dress for days on end. She seldom smiled, and openly chastised any student who got out of line, which was often, especially for fourth graders.

During our Palmer Method penmanship lessons, Mrs. Prowell would stridently walk up and down the aisle with ruler in hand and rap anyone's knuckles if their writing became less than perfect. And when it came to minor infractions, we were never innocent until proven guilty, but always guilty, and sent to the cloakroom with nary a chance to explain.

At the beginning of the school year, Mrs. Prowell warned us she had eyes in the back of her head, and we believed her because we hardly ever got away with anything. Once I passed a love note to my boyfriend, Peter, while her back was turned. She spun around, briskly marched down the aisle with a mean look on her face, grabbed the note from Peter's hand, read it, then snapped at me, "Don't be too forward with the boys, it'll get you into trouble every time!" I was so scared and mortified that I stopped writing love notes for two whole weeks. And although I tried to take her advice, I just couldn't change my behavior without taking a vow of silence in a nunnery, so I decided the trouble she warned me about was worth it.

She was a strict one, old "Pruddy Prowell" as we called her, but I learned good penmanship, memorized my times tables, and developed a love for singing patriotic songs.

By all appearances I didn't believe Mrs. Prowell had a heart or a home. I thought perhaps she descended into the school basement at night and created her sinister lesson plans for the next day. That was, until Otillie transferred into our class. She was a girl that looked as funny as her name. She had mousy brown hair, a narrow pointed nose, sad eyes, and well-worn clothes. I didn't think much about Otillie, and kind of ignored her, until one week before Valentine's Day when Mrs. Prowell announced to the class that each one of us had to give every student in the room a Valentine. What a corny rule, I thought to myself. Besides, it was inconvenient for me because I had already made (from scratch in those days) just enough Valentines for the friends I liked. (I made three for Peter.) This new rule meant I had to make some more for the kids I didn't even know, or didn't like. It just didn't seem fair, but of course I managed to smile and keep my mouth shut.

When I went home and told my mom of Mrs. Prowell's corny rule, she thought it would be a nice gesture and encouraged me to do it, so I did--grudgingly. Sure, it was an empty gesture, but somehow having to write Otillie's name on a Valentine forced me to be a little more compassionate, and a little more aware of those less fortunate (and selfish) than myself. When I saw Otillie's face light up when she took her first look at her small decorated box overflowing with Valentines, that was a lesson for me in how pleasing others can please ourselves.

Otillie and I became friends after that, and ever since I've learned to expand my world to include people so diverse that my parents wondered if I didn't go too far sometimes, especially when I began to hang out with humanists and other "fringe" groups.

Well, I can thank Mrs. Prowell for my first venture into inclusive behavior. Her Valentine scheme still works for me and has brought me many lasting friendships. Happy Valentine's everyone!