"That's not how you write a W!" the teacher screamed before I frantically erased my handiwork. It was my first grade teacher, we'll just call her Mrs. Doe, that made writing the alphabet feel like defusing a bomb. The slow, steady movement of my pencil marked my survival, or my failure. Mrs. Doe walked across the room like a warden inspecting the prisoners.
I'm free from those people when I'm in my basement. Nobody talks about my mistakes or every single flaw about me. I live on my own terms, carefree. When I go down there, my drum set calls out to me, to beat rhythm after rhythm. Nobody is there to judge or patronize. It' just me, and only me.
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