The second Tuesday came. I wrote on my card， “A stitch in time gathers no moss.”Again， not trusting him， I covered myself with humor， which had always been my best defense against unwanted closeness. The next day the card came back with this note：“You seem to have a sense of humor. Is this an important part of your life？”
What did he want？ What was going on here？ I couldn’t remember a teacher caring personally about me since elementary school. What did this man want？
Now， I raced down the hallway， 10 minutes late to class. Just outside the door， I took an index card from my notebook and wrote my name and the date on it. Desperate for something to write on it， I could only think about the fight I’d just had with my dad.“I am the son of an idiot！” I wrote and then dashed into the room. He stood， conducting a discussion， near the door. Looking up at me， he reached out for the card and I handed it to him and took my seat.
The moment I reached my seat， I felt overwhelmed with dread， what had I done？ I gave him that card！Oh， no！I didn’t mean to let that out. Now he’ll know about my anger， about my dad， about my life！ I don’t remember anything about the rest of that class session. All I could think about was the card.
I had difficulty sleeping that night， filled with a nameless dread. What could these cards be all about？ Why did I tell him that about my dad？ Suppose he contacts my dad？ What business is it of his anyway？
Wednesday morning arrived and I reluctantly got ready for school. When I got to the class， I was early. I wanted to sit in back and hide as best I could. The class began and Dr. Simon began giving back the thought cards. He put mine on the desk face down as was his usual practice. I picked it up， almost unable to turn it over.
When I looked at the face of the card， he had written，“What does ‘the son of an idiot’ do with the rest of his life？” It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I had spent a lot of time hanging out in the student union cafeteria talking with other young men about the problems I had “because of my parents”. And they， too， shared the same sort of material with me. No one challenged anyone to take respossibility for himself. No， we all accepted the parent-blaming game with relief. Everything was our parents’ fault. If we did poorly on tests， blame Mom. If we just missed getting a student-aid job， blame Dad. I constantly complained about my folks and all the guys nodded sagely. These folks who were paying the tuition were certainly an interfering bunch of fools， weren’t they？
Sidney Simon’s innocent-seeming question punctured that balloon. It got right to the heart of the issue： Whose problem is it？ Whose responsibility are you？
I skipped going to the student union that day and went straight home， strangely depressed， chastened. All evening I thought about it and about something my mother had said： “The millionaire calls himself a ‘self-made man，’ but if he gets arrested， he blames his abusive parents. ”
I wish I could say that I experienced a magical transformation but it wasn’t true. However， Dr. Simon’s comment was insidious. It kept coming up in my mind over the next few weeks. Again and again， as I heard myself blaming my father for this or that， a little internal voice said， “Okay， suppose your father is all those bad things you said. How long do you think you can get away with blaming him for your life？”
Slowly， inexorably， my thinking shifted. I heard myself blaming a lot. After a while， I realized that I had created a life in which I was not a central figure！I was the object of the action， not the subject. That felt even more uncomfortable than any feeling I had in Dr. Simon’s class. I didn’t want to be a puppet. I wanted to be an actor， not a reactor. The process of growth wasn’t easy or fast. It took over a year before people noticed that I was taking responsibility for my own actions， my own choices， my own feelings. I was surprised at how my grades improved in all my subjects. I was astounded at the increase in the number—and quality—of my friends. I was equally astonished by how much smarter my father seemed.
All through this process， I kept sending in my thought cards. Later， I took another course with this unique teacher. I worked harder for him than I had in any other class I had ever taken. With each thought card came more unsettling questions for thought.
Several years later， I was astounded at my own progress. From a struggling， marginal student I became a successful student and then a successful high school teacher. I went from constant anger and constant avoidance of the necessary work in my life to someone who was energized， excited， purposeful and even joyful.
My relationship with my father also improved dramatically. Instead of controlling， now I saw him as concerned and caring. I recognized that he didn’t have “smooth” ways of parenting me but that his intentions were very loving. The fights diminished and finally disappeared. I learned to see my father as a smart， wise and loving man. And it all started with a question， an innocent-seeming question.
我不得不承认，大学一年级的我仍然是一个脾气暴躁的青年。无论怎样，我看这个世界总是不顺眼，到处发脾气。我觉得从父母那里根本得不到快乐，这也是我生气的主要原因。父亲的管教更加令我恼火。
因为经济上的原因，我选择了一所当地的大学，每天乘坐公交车去上课。一天，我与父亲大吵了一架。我觉得，他总是试图控制我，然而，我想挣脱这种束缚，过自由的生活。他竭力维护自己的家长权威，说我太叛逆。我们两个人都气急败坏地大叫起来。我怒气冲冲地出了门，到车站时已经错过了一班车。如果坐下一班车，我就会因迟到而赶不上教育课。一想到这里，我就更加气愤。
在去学校的路上，我一直在发火和叹息。整个大脑塞满了我对父亲的愤恨，就像许多小青年一样，以自我为中心，并且深信这个世界上没有一个人像我这样悲惨，遇上这么一个不通情理的父亲，还受到这么不公平的对待。毕竟，我是一名风华正茂的大学生，而我的父亲甚至连高中都没有念完。与他相比，我强得多了，他有什么资格干涉我的生活和理想呢？
我向上教育课的教学楼跑去，当我穿过校园弯曲的小径时，忽然想起要交的作业“思想卡”，然而，我还没有写完。
西德尼？毕？西蒙博士担任这门课的教师，他是这个学校里最有个性的老师。人们常常这样谈论西蒙博士：他采用的教学方法和过程很独特，他制定了具有革命性的学习评价原则成绩评估，他使用的教学方法令人目不暇接。
