As I think back to my 9th grade art teacher I can't help but think of the first time I met him and the first impression I had of him. Carefully opening the door of the Art room I peeped my head in to make sure that I was in the right. I saw classmates that I have yet to know of chatting and sitting together and a middle aged man sitting in a chair that seemed 2 sizes too small for his butt. The roomed smelled of wet paint and rice paste, the table messy, and bags laying where ever people wanted. Then the teacher turned to me and said: "Oh look we have a new little boy in class, what is your name little boy?"
"Patrick Chen" I replied.
That is just a part of the anecdote and when I think of it the frame jumps from place to place and moves all around the room and even turns back to look at myself. The sounds I hear are of people chatting and objects being moved on the tables and ground. Chairs being dragged and people laughing.
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