I don't remember much about my first day of school. I don't remember much about my first day of school. To be more precise, I don't remember anything at all. During my first day I was 2 years and a half and it wasn't anybody else's first day and surely nothing to celebrate for my family: the nursery was costly and my mother would have to stay at home anyway, it didn't make much sense to send me to school, but they sent me anyway because I really wanted to, insisted to and made them think it would hurt my self esteem forever if they were not to let me do it. It's nice to observe that in 25 years at least some things haven't changed. Nurseries are still expensive. My wish to learn, and my ability to manipulate my parents was fast enough replaced by boredom and a deep sense of disappointment. I thought I could write about my first day of elementary school but I can't remember that either. Probably because, for reasons that I later considered pretty unsolid, my parents decided I should start from the second year. My first day of elementary school was in fact the first day of the second year for everybody else in my class and therefore nothing to be celebrated or remembered. This leaves me to the first day of lower secondary school. I only have one memory: The classes were being formed. Hundreds of children in the playground were waiting for the headmaster to call their names, so they could find out in which class they had been placed, and who were their classmates. Everybody hoping to be put in the same class with that boy or that girl and not that other boy or that other girl, which surely enough was thay boy or that girl for somebody else who would end up in your classroom. And at some point the headmaster calls: "Diego Armando Maradona". And the crowd - parents and all - exploded in a big cheer. He was the football player's son. Unfortunately called with the same exact name of the father, to make sure everybody else would know, should the face and the haircut not be creepy enough. No more memories for that day. Which leaves me to the first day of higher secondary school. In this case, I can remember something else than a boy called Diego: pure anxiety. But there was a Diego boy, who seemed anxious like me, from the suburbs like me, in my classroom like me, and not knowing how exactly to proceed from there like me. That was when I learned I would never master small talk. And I don't think he's ever talked to me again since then.