A year after graduation, I was offered a position teaching a writing class. Teaching was a profession I had never seriously considered, though several of my stories had been published. I accepted the job without hesitation, as it would allow me to wear a tie and go by the name of Mr. Davis. My father went by the same name, and I liked to imagine people getting the two of us confused. “Wait a minute,” someone might say, “are you talking about Mr. Davis the retired man, or Mr. Davis the respectable scholar?”

The position was offered at the last minute, and I was given two weeks to prepare, a period I spent searching for briefcase (公文包) and standing before my full-length mirror, repeating the words, “Hello, class. I’m Mr. Davis.” Sometimes I would give myself an aggressive voice. Sometimes I would sound experienced. But when the day eventually came, my nerves kicked in and the true Mr. Davis was there. I sounded not like a thoughtful professor, but rather a 12-year-old boy.

I arrived in the classroom with paper cards designed in the shape of maple leaves. I had cut them myself out of orange construction paper. I saw nine students along a long table. I handed out the cards, and the students wrote down their names and fastened them to their breast pockets as I required.

“All right then,” I said. “Okay, here we go.” Then I opened my briefcase and realized that I had never thought beyond this moment. I had been thinking that the students would be the first to talk, offering their thoughts and opinions on the events of the day. I had imagined that I would sit at the edge of the desk, overlooking a forests of hands. Every student would yell. “Calm down, you’ll all get your turn. One at a time, one at a time!”

A terrible silence ruled the room, and seeing no other opinions, I inspected the students to pull out their notebooks and write a brief essay related to the theme of deep disappointment.

In the late 1990s, a family visited the public elementary school where I taught deaf students. They said they would be moving to the district and planned to enroll (报名) their deaf daughter as a first grader. They were upset that their child’s kindergarten teacher Jane cautioned them not to have high hopes for her academically. Based upon assessment results, the teacher painted a discouraging picture for their little girl’s future. Standing behind them was Fiona, a beautiful five-year -old with long shiny brown hair and dark flashing eyes. The whole time her parents were there she didn’t make a sound or use sign language, even when her parents encouraged her.

After a few weeks with Fiona, I discovered I was dealing with a very bright, very strong-willed child. Although I was able to engage her in a variety of learning activities, writing was a continual struggle. I tried all kinds of ways to interest her in writing. Every time the pencils came out, she would shut down and refuse to participate.

One day Fiona got off her bus and stood in front of the school, weeping. The staff members present did not know enough sign language to ask her why she was crying. Finally they took her into the office where they handed her a pen and notepad. Fiona wrote: “PAC BAK”. Immediately the office staff realized she left her backpack on the bus. They asked the bus to come back to school and soon Fiona was reunited with her backpack.

That day Fiona discovered the power of the pen. From then on, she had a new appreciation for writing. She is a young woman now and has become an excellent writer, public speaker and student leader. During her senior year in high school, Fiona became the Douglas County Rodeo Queen and the following year she enrolled at the University of Northern Colorado, determined to become a teacher. In the summer of 2008, I traveled to the National Association of the Deaf Conference in New Orleans and watched her perform competitively as Miss Deaf Colorado. Fiona keeps in touch and I especially treasure her e-mails with term papers attached. This young lady has a very powerful pen!

On a Tuesday afternoon in America's tech wonderland,Michael Feno,owner of Lucca Ravioli, stood outside his dear pasta restaurant,posing for pictures,his customers in tears.After 94 years, Lucca's doors shut on the last day of April 2019.A few blocks away,Borderlands Cafe closed the same day after 10 years in business.Owner Alan Beatts could not keep workers,even with a$15 minimum hourly wage.Who could live on$15 an hour in this city?

Tech is not what everyone talks about in San Francisco.It is money.Its estate(房地产）is the nation's costliest.A single-family home lists for$1.6 million,while$3,700 in monthly rent will get you a one-bedroom apartment.

For decades,this attractive city of hills,bordered by water on three sides,was a precious harbor for immigrants and artists.That's no longer the case.In a time of rare consensus(共识）， everyone agrees that something has become bad in San Francisco.

The city is rich in what other areas desire:start-ups,high-paying jobs,educated young people and rising property values.In the shadow of such wealth,however,San Francisco struggles with a homeless problem,which even forced Mayor London Breed to send a team to clean up human waste on the streets.

To many citizens,San Francisco has become unrecognizable in 10 years,as if it had received cosmetic surgery(整容手术）。It has less of what makes a city energetic.It has the lowest percentage of children of any major American city,and is home to about as many dogs as humans under the age of 18.To take a midday tour downtown is to be surrounded by an army of young workers,mostly white and male.Seeing a child who is learning to walk is similar to finding an endangered animal.

The city has also become less of a home to artists and musicians,because they cannot afford their practising spaces.How will the city create its next Grateful Dead or generation of Beat Writers? ＂Part of being an artist is being an observer of what's going on,says Victor Krummenacher,a member of a rock band who left the city in 2019 after 30 years."In this area,you're only stuck in the jam and costs.”

Everyone has a story about what is not here anymore:the inability to find a hardware store,a shoe repair or an independent music club.Businesses that were part of the memory,tradition and the lives of San Franciscans are being replaced with hipster(潮人）shops,which work to keep an artificial memory of its past.