Put your hand up if you ran from doorbells, hid behind pant legs, and avoided eye contact with grownups as a shy little kid. Brothers and sisters, if your hand is up right now, you are not alone. Yes, mute as a mouse, quiet as a cat, I was a short, snotty, bedhead-smeared ghost of a child until about eight years old. That was when I was head-yanked out of my turtle shell by a cotton-white, curly-haired, crinkly-smiled teacher who pushed me every single day. For some reason Mrs. Dorsman cared, she just cared, and she had me reading to the class, talking out loud, and practicing my cursive on the blackboard.