It was late afternoon when I drove past the public school in Pittsburgh, PA where I spent my early years. For nostalgias sake, I stopped to see if any of my old teachers were still there. I found the doors open, so I walked inside through the corridors I recalled so well.
I walked the old, familiar hallways of the first and second floor, but the building seemed deserted. I went down to the basement and came out across from the shop classroom where Mr. Coree taught. I walked in, and there he was. Mr. Coree came from Haiti, wore his hair in braids, and he had the blackest skin Id ever seen. As I looked at him sitting at his desk, I realized he hadnt changed much. He still wore the braids, but his hair was now a little gray.
"Hi, Mr. Coree," I said, walking toward the front of the classroom, "remember me?"
He looked up and said, "I know I should, just let me think a moment."
His eyes roamed my body from top to botto...
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