I didn't have many memorable teachers--or maybe I just didn't make many memories about them. School was my haven, but it was hardly memorable compared to the trauma of home life. Still, a few of my teachers made their marks on me, and I remember them fondly.
Miss Mershon, who took in a know-it-all 5th grader and helped me make friends in a group of kids that had been together since kindergarten.
Madame Bray, the cheerful French teacher who worked hard to change my Moroccan accent (courtesy of my second-year French teacher, Monsieur Bonfiglio, who gave the girls an A for every day they wore a skirt and told us all we had bedroom eyes) and worked extra hard with me so I could take the French AP exam.
Mr. Berk Moss, who tried to trick us into buying extra periodic tables by offering them "one for a dime, two for a quarter," and helped clean up the glass when we broke a test tube in his chemistry class. Mr. Moss, your class was the only science or math class in which I wasn't made to feel inferior or adjudged incompetent to do the work simply on the basis of my sex.
Mr. Bill Presley, the man who really taught me how to think. Bill, I can never thank you enough. The critical and analytical skills you helped me develop have been the most useful thing I learned from the official school curriculum.
I had other good teachers, but these four really made a difference to me.