Mr Fisher was always a hot-headed one in a good way of course. He was one of those

teachers that would playfully talk smack to all the stupid teenagers in the class

getting a good laugh out of all of us.

And he was also one of those teachers that was excellent at their job.

Mr Fisher's scholastic passion was American literature and oh boy he knew American

literature I can't even count the number of times it would rant about JD Salinger

or Ernest Hemingway relentlessly and then just stop talking and zone out

because it would ponder the greatness of their work in his silent bubble.

We were just watch him silk in his episode of awkward silence and fiery admiration for his idols.

Don't get me wrong.

Unlike most of the teachers in the school that didn't give a damn about our educational process. He cared excessively. He would go out of his way and legitimately connect with us individually, just so he could crack the code of our developing minds and learn the secrets to how he can get us to pay attention in his class.

He was a great teacher and not to be bold, but I was a great student.

I was his favorite student.

Whenever he would ask the class for an answer,

and he never saw any hands go up,

he would just put me on the hot seat.

With no problem at all, I would answer him every time.

There were even times when he would walk up to my desk, put his hand on my shoulder and commemorate me.

Right in the middle of the damn class session.

Now at the time, it was a bit much, yes.

But I wasn't just going to deny his request for a correct answer. The only time

that I was ever concerned with in his class was that he made everything super hard.

...