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When I was about 13 years old, my parents sent me to a small, private school that catered to children from the wealthiest families in the Detroit area. The school was unusual in that it went out of its way to assist the wealthiest students and seemed to pay less attention to others. I was friends with one of the wealthy kids, and the headmaster actually used to go over to help him with his homework. Despite the difference in the way the wealthier kids were treated, there were some extremely good things about the school. Upon entering this school, I enrolled in the English class, which was also my homeroom. I would go into homeroom for about 20 minutes at the start of each day, and not much happened there. I think maybe we were supposed to be studying. My homeroom teacher quickly grew to dislike me as well as a few other kids in the class, because we were quite rowdy. We made fun of the girls in homeroom and acted in ways we shouldn’t have. Our homeroom teacher was quite young, somewhat soft spoken, and never reacted to us. This just made us act out even more. Our homeroom teacher had a brother, who was my history teacher. He was pretty serious and did a good job controlling his students. A strange thing happened when I came to this school. I had always loved English and history, and [Read more]