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I am standing next to the teacher, Mrs. Heisler, one I liked very much until the very last day of school that year. The class had made several realistic scenic layouts with clay and paint. One was from the dinosaur era. I don't recall the other one. She held a lottery for who would get each one on the final day of class. Even the kids who won could not take them home because of weight or size, so other kids got them instead. Everyone else had gone home, and I was helping her clean up--perhaps I didn't feel like going home right away. I noticed in a back drawer or cabinet that we had not raffled off one of the plastic dinosaurs and casually mentioned it. She suddenly, and without provocation that I could see, yelled at me to put that item away and close the drawer. I was taken aback and my feelings were terribly hurt. At this point at home we certainly were dealing with the succession of house keepers and then Grandma Sanchez, and mom was not living with us anymore. A teacher I liked was the one constant in my life, and here she was yelling at me all out of proportion to what I had done, if I had even done anything wrong. I remember walking out the door in the afternoon sunlight, hurt beyond imagining.
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