They would also have been written on the box the shoes I was wearing came in;a bolt of gray linen cloth lying on the shelf of a store from which my mother had bought three yards to make the uniform that I was wearing had written along its edge those three words.The shoes I wore were made in England;so were my socks and cotton undergarments and the satin ribbons I wore tied at the end of two plaits of my hair.My father,who might have sat next to me at breakfast,was a carpenter and cabinet maker.The shoes he wore to work would have been made in England,as were his khaki shirt and trousers,his underpants and undershirt,his socks and brown felt hat.Felt was not the proper material from which a hat that was expected to provide shade from the hot sun should be made,but my father must have seen and admired a picture of an Englishman wearing such a hat in England,and this picture that he saw must have been so compelling that it caused him to wear the wrong hat for a hot climate most of his long life.And this hat-a brown felt hat-became so central to his character that it was the first thing he put on in the morning as he stepped out of bed and the last thing he took off before he stepped back into bed at night.As we sat at breakfast a car might go by.The car,a Hillman or a Zephyr,was made in England.The very idea of the meal itself,breakfast,and its substantial quality and quantity was an idea from England 2;we somehow knew that in England they began the day with this meal called breakfast and a proper breakfast was a big breakfast.No one I knew liked eating so much food so early in the day;it made us feel sleepy, tired.But this breakfast business was Made in England like almost everything else that surrounded us,the exceptions being the sea,the sky,and the air we breathed. 3 At the time I saw this map-seeing England for the first time-I did not say to myself, "Ah,so that's what it looks like,"because there was no longing in me to put a shape to those three words that ran through every part of my life,no matter how small;for me to have had such a longing would have meant that I lived in a certain atmosphere,an atmosphere in which those three words were felt as a burden.But I did not live in such an atmosphere.My father's brown felt hat would develop a hole in its crown,the lining would separate from the hat itself, and six weeks before he thought that he could not be seen wearing it-he was a very vain man-he would order another hat from England.And my mother taught me to eat my food in the English way:the knife in the right hand,the fork in the left,my elbows held still close to my side,the food carefully balanced on my fork and then brought up to my mouth.When I had finally mastered it,I overheard her saying to a friend,"Did you see how nicely she can eat?"But I knew then that I enjoyed my food more when I ate it with my bare hands,and I continued to do so when she wasn't looking.And when my teacher showed us the map,she asked us to study it carefully,because no test we would ever take would be complete without this statement:“Draw a map of England.” 4 I did not know then that the statement "Draw a map of England"was something far worse than a declaration of war,for in fact a flat-out declaration of war would have put me on alert,and again in fact,there was no need for war-I had long ago been conquered.I did not know then that this statement was part of a process that would result in my erasure,not my physical erasure,but my erasure all the same.I did not know then that this statement wasThey would also have been written on the box the shoes I was wearing came in; a bolt of gray linen cloth lying on the shelf of a store from which my mother had bought three yards to make the uniform that I was wearing had written along its edge those three words. The shoes I wore were made in England; so were my socks and cotton undergarments and the satin ribbons I wore tied at the end of two plaits of my hair. My father, who might have sat next to me at breakfast, was a carpenter and cabinet maker. The shoes he wore to work would have been made in England, as were his khaki shirt and trousers, his underpants and undershirt, his socks and brown felt hat. Felt was not the proper material from which a hat that was expected to provide shade from the hot sun should be made, but my father must have seen and admired a picture of an Englishman wearing such a hat in England, and this picture that he saw must have been so compelling that it caused him to wear the wrong hat for a hot climate most of his long life. And this hat—a brown felt hat—became so central to his character that it was the first thing he put on in the morning as he stepped out of bed and the last thing he took off before he stepped back into bed at night. As we sat at breakfast a car might go by. The car, a Hillman or a Zephyr, was made in England. The very idea of the meal itself, breakfast, and its substantial quality and quantity was an idea from England 2 ; we somehow knew that in England they began the day with this meal called breakfast and a proper breakfast was a big breakfast. No one I knew liked eating so much food so early in the day; it made us feel sleepy, tired. But this breakfast business was Made in England like almost everything else that surrounded us, the exceptions being the sea, the sky, and the air we breathed. 3 At the time I saw this map—seeing England for the first time—I did not say to myself, “Ah, so that’s what it looks like,” because there was no longing in me to put a shape to those three words that ran through every part of my life, no matter how small; for me to have had such a longing would have meant that I lived in a certain atmosphere, an atmosphere in which those three words were felt as a burden. But I did not live in such an atmosphere. My father’s brown felt hat would develop a hole in its crown, the lining would separate from the hat itself, and six weeks before he thought that he could not be seen wearing it—he was a very vain man—he would order another hat from England. And my mother taught me to eat my food in the English way: the knife in the right hand, the fork in the left, my elbows held still close to my side, the food carefully balanced on my fork and then brought up to my mouth. When I had finally mastered it, I overheard her saying to a friend, “Did you see how nicely she can eat?” But I knew then that I enjoyed my food more when I ate it with my bare hands, and I continued to do so when she wasn’t looking. And when my teacher showed us the map, she asked us to study it carefully, because no test we would ever take would be complete without this statement: “Draw a map of England.” 4 I did not know then that the statement “Draw a map of England” was something far worse than a declaration of war, for in fact a flat-out declaration of war would have put me on alert, and again in fact, there was no need for war—I had long ago been conquered. I did not know then that this statement was part of a process that would result in my erasure, not my physical erasure, but my erasure all the same. I did not know then that this statement was