I can remember the first time it happened. Class was getting out of hand. Our teacher, after quieting us six times as she tried to keep our 1 on the task at hand, finally gave up and informed we could take a rest. Instantly, the classroom erupted with students 2 their seats, laughing and talking.
And then there was me. I sat 3 in my chair. I finished the activity and then worked on a project, completely content. I didn't associate what I was doing with 4 behavior; I just had no desire to be loud and crazy.
As parents started to arrive, our teacher . 5 the chattering children with a half-hearted smile. But when my mother 6 ,she commented, "Your daughter is such a nice girl in class. She's a 7 ." And there it was: my first "nice".
Whether or not I knew it, a 8 had been set for my future behavior, though my teacher probably didn't mean it.
As years passed, I became9 in the art of nice. But as much as I loved praise, I was too 10 to dare be anything but nice.
People rarely see the Real Me, because the Real Me is 11 .She doesn't clean her room as often as she should. She's 12 at making decisions. Nice became a shelter I 13 my real feelings. "It's like living a. 14 life," I thought. I am 15 with being nice. I want to be the best of myself, not the nicest.
