I was only six years old when I flunked an eye test held at the Chicago Public Schools. A week later I was looking through a black contraption with goggles that looked like it belonged on a Russian submarine. I could barely make out the big E on top, much less the rest of the chart, and the result was my first pair of glasses. . . . But my parents, who had perfect vision, did not like my glasses and thought they detracted from my beauty. They encouraged me not to wear them in public, so I got used to keeping them in my pockets and slipping them on and off. It didn’t matter how often I tripped over things like big dogs or walked into white doors that blended into walls or that I could not see a volleyball much less a baseball in gym class. Junior Prom was particularly memorable when I walked into the band pit. As my glasses got thicker and thicker. I no longer found Mr. Magoo funny at all.