Then one day there was a betrayal of my dreams. My father told me, "It is not important for girls to go to university. I work hard. I am tired. Now you must work, help support the family."

　　I looked at him, not caring, not understanding the burdens he carried. I could have shouted, "I want to go to university. I want to be somebody." But I turned without a word and ran away. I stayed at my friend Julia's until night fell.

　　My mother came looking for me.

　　"He does not understand," I said. "I want to learn. I want to be a teacher."

　　"We will explain all to your father," she signed, "He is sorry."

　　As we walked slowly down the street, my father came toward us. He signed solemnly. "Do not be angry at Ben. I love you, daughter Ruth. You will go to university. I will go with you. You will teach me."

　　My university years were wonderful. When I came home, my father, still demanding a question mind would say, "What did you ask professor today?"

　　He would shaked his head at all the books - in the hall, on coffee tables, by the kitchen sink.

　　"So many books, Too hard to read," he'd sign. "Tell me, who is the best writer in world?"

　　I signed an opening paragraph of Mark Twain's, word for word. He watched my hands until his concentraition flagged.

　　"Too many words, falling everywhere, like rocks coming down mountains. You explain better."

　　Defeated, I dropped my eyes. Then he said with his fingers in the air, decreasing the space between his thumb and forefinger. "Next time we read thin book, I sure to understand every word." His grin was huge. He made me laugh.

　　One afternoon I rushed home overjoyed. "I won a prize, Mamma," I signed. "I earned a gold key for my university work; Phi Beta Kappa." I spelled each Greek letter for her.

　　Our eyes met in a long smile. "You worked hard many years," she signed. "I proud of you." She took my face in her hands and kissed me.

　　The moment my father opened the door, my mother, unable to contain her pleasure, pulled him into the living room. "Ben, I have a surprise."

　　"I'll take off coat, hat."

　　"No wait. I tell you now. Ruth has Phi Beta Kappa."

　　"Funny words. What are you saying, Mary?"

　　"They are letters of the Greek alphabet," I interjected. "It is the name of an honor society for the best students in university."

　　He made the connection and shouted with his harsh voice and sweeping hands. "We have good luck! Tell me again how to spell the honor-club words."

　　Once more I spelled the letters, and he etched them into his hand. Sitting on the sofa, he pulled me down to him and took me by the shoulders with both hands. In halting oral words he said, "Congratulations to daughter Ruth."