"What kind of stuff do you write？" one student asked on my first day at the University.After a decade away from the classroom，I was back to teaching.
   "I write newspaper and magazine articles，" I said， "and creative non-fiction，as you'll be doing." It was a lie.I couldn't remember when I'd last written a creative essay.It must have been before my distant mother fell ill，leaving me resigned to the idea that our story of family dysfunction would not end happily.It seemed that nothing I wrote could change that.
   With a surplus of time and lack of inspiration，I accepted a position to teach creative non-fiction.Although I couldn't get myself to tell my own stories，I could require that my students tell theirs. "You're going to be keeping a journal，" I said with the kind of firm authority that didn't work as self-talk. "And I want you to tell your stories like they matter."
   "Why do they matter？" a boy named Michael asked.Half-Chinese，half-Irish，he was outlaw handsome with a hard-set jaw and dark eyes. "I mean，who cares about our stories？"
   Looking out at the students，I realized I didn't have an answer.I stuttered，buying myself some time.
   No one said a word.Either they didn't know，or they were shy.Perhaps they were just tired from their busy lives.Many，I learned，worked full-time while in school full-time.Most，I assumed，didn't have the faintest idea that their stories did matter.
   Finally，I looked at Michael. "They matter because they do." I said，lamely grappling for clarity. "Because it's what you have.When you shape your experience into a story，it becomes yours and not just something that happened to you."
   Michael didn't look convinced，but he didn't challenge me，either.
   In his first essay，Michael wrote about how he grew up on the streets of one of the worst neighbourhoods in Boston.He wrote about the night he was out with two other young men and had a pistol pointed at his face：
   In that moment everything went blank.A rush of adrenaline（腎上腺素） and the feeling of numbness shot through my body as the guy cocked back the hammer.A cruiser drove by：giving us enough time to flee but a week later those guys I was with were shot.One took a bullet in the leg：the other took a bullet in the chest.Minutes after I got that news，I decided I was going to college.
   He went on to write about how his high school English teacher，an elderly woman who saw his potential，helped him fill out a college application.Also with the help of other teachers，he came to this school.
   I had Michael read his essay out loud.After he finished the class went so still that we could hear the sound of each other's breath.I looked at Michael and saw a small softening in his dark eyes.When he finally sat back in his chair，it was like a coil unwinding.
   After a moment，I said， "That's why you tell your stories."
   I went home that night and picked up my journal from where it lay，dusty and untouched，by the side of my bed.I found a pen and gathered myself in a blanket.For the first time in months，I had to write.

（1）Why did the author tell a lie？

B

B

A．He intended to get acquainted with students.
B．He wanted to strike students as professional.
C．He wanted to conceal the fact of being born unhappy
D．He couldn't remember when he last wrote an essay.
（2）What was Michael's reaction to the author's requirement？

C

C

A．Supportive
B．Angry.
C．Doubtful.
D．Unconcerned.
（3）What do we know from Michael's story？

D

D

A．He used to be involved in criminal activities.
B．He didn't receive any formal education before college.
C．He successfully applied for a college all on his own.
D．He was dissatisfied with his previous life and wanted to make a change.
（4）What is the importance of telling your stories according to the author？

D

D

A．It adds color to our busy daily life.
B．It gives us inspiration for future life.
C．It provides us with an opportunity to rewrite our destiny.
D．It allows us to make meaning of what we've been through.