“It’s leprosy,” the doctor said after examining me. At least that’s what my mother told me.

I was six years old. It wasn’t painful, and I wasn’t bothered by it, but the superficial layers of skin had peeled from my hands and the teacher insisted I bring a physician note before allowing me back in class.

As it turned out, it wasn’t leprosy at all. It was the paste I’d spread with my fingers during our first-grade art projects. My mother had told me it was leprosy with her tongue planted firmly in her cheek. Being six, I assumed she was serious and, of course, told my teacher I had leprosy. I didn’t know leprosy was rather uncommon in New Jersey at the time. Apparently, it escaped my teacher as well. I was again banned pending another physician note.

I was the only kid that got to use Elmer’s Glue for the rest of the year.