The frightening day of our diving test was here. Our parents thought we were lucky to have an Olympic-size swimming pool at the school. My mom stressed that the swimming pool was one of the best in our city. But I didn’t feel happy about it at all. Instead, I felt afraid of the swimming pool. It was mainly because I was terribly shy.

I was so shy that I always sat at the back of the room in class so I’d not be called upon to read. As for the present physical education class each Monday morning, I would work my way to the back of the line forming at the diving board so I would not have to practice the dives.

Now, it was another Monday morning - the morning of our diving test. My blood ran cold when the teacher Ms. Robbins announced that we would be graded for our final on the most difficult dive- the jackknife. And she added, “This diving test is important. The one who fails has to spare time in the following Monday mornings to practice diving in this swimming pool and attend this test again.”

My body kept shaking with fear as the line to the scary diving board shortened. As I watched, each student seemed to perform the challenging dive effortlessly. And shortly I would have to attempt something that I had never even practiced before.

Then I remembered someone telling me that when you picture yourself doing a skill over and over, it’s just as effective as physically practicing that skill. So I watched carefully as each classmate jumped at the end of the board once, added a jump for height, folded their body in half to reach for their toes, and finally straightened out like an arrow for going into the water. After carefully watching for a while, I was actually in a state of surprise, because all of a sudden I realized that it was possible for me to perform these four steps of diving.

Eventually all classmates except me finished jumping. The teacher announced that it was my turn.

With my heart knocking wildly, I walked down the diving board towards its end.

Knowing I failed, I climbed out of the pool, embarrassed.

My parents came to the US from India in the 1960s, along with other immigrants from India. Back then, there were few Indians anywhere around the US. My father came to Kansas,where he would get his Ph.D. Six months later, my mother came with the three of us kids — my sister, my brother, and me. We were just six,five and three years old then.

It was the very first winter when we were in Kansas. It was so cold,but we didn’t have heavy coats or warm clothes. We didn’t have a concept of how cold it really could be in the Midwest, and there was a new surprise every day. We didn’t have a car or anything like that, and my dad didn’t have a US driver’s license. But anyway, my father was studying for his Ph.D., and he would walk up and down a big hill to and from the campus on a regular basis.

Since I was three years old, I didn’t go to school, but my sister and brother were in school. My father had to walk down the big hill to take them to school every day and then walk back up the hill to go to university.After about three weeks of living like this, a woman called Valerie,whose son John was in the same class as my brother, started noticing them. On a very cold snowy morning,when they went to school as usual,Valerie passed by. She pulled up and said, “I see you on the way every day. Don’t you feel cold without coats?”My father responded,“We didn’t expect the weather would be so cold in Kansas.”Valerie said,“Maybe I can take your daughter and son to school. Would you like a ride?”

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Hearing that, my dad nodded with great joy.

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Later, Valerie and her family became so dear to my family.