I could almost taste the aroma of machine oil with just a hint of tobacco as I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. The janitor's room was dark and quiet, so different from the bustle of the fourth-grade classroom I had just been kidnapped from. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, my attention jumped from one object to another. Drills, saws, tool boxes and hanging on the walls were all sorts of gadgets begging to be explored. After a second deep breath, reality destroyed any hope of exploration. I was a prisoner. My life was doomed. I was a Baby Boomer and we descended on 1960s schools like hungry locusts. Schools, faced with this wave of small-time, empty-headed terrorists, have gone from institutions of learning to factories that process students like some sort of by-product of meat. The lessons were to the limit. Teachers were too busy, too old and in short supply. Problems were looming on the horizon just waiting for their chance to pounce, and I was the target. Once you overcome the trauma of missing your mother and your life partner, your bizarre, school becomes an adventure of new and wonderful discoveries such as bus trips, new friends, surprises for packed lunches and recess everyone's favorite. Later, in fifth and sixth grade, you will begin the journey of young adulthood with new responsibilities. Fourth grade, however, was a breeding ground for Tasmanian devils. We were no longer rookies and enjoyed the chance to see how far we could push ourselves. We were the Terrible Twos of the school system. For the most part, elementary school was a prison for me. Teachers struggled just to maintain control, much less have time for each student. Right or wrong,...... middle of paper...... need to escape and confidence raged in my head. I decided to take a risk and said in a shameful tone “I'm sorry, I was daydreaming. "I looked at the floor to prepare myself for the impending wrath. "Well, I can certainly understand why, as it's a beautiful autumn day outside. We're almost done and only a few minutes left until recess. Bear with us a little longer.” Raising his arms above his head in a stress-relieving stretch, he passed to another student. Relief washed over me, and then thoughts of the fall day faded from my mind. A shiver of wonder ran down my neck. The realization that my prison had become a place of hope grew in my mind like a new dawn after a stormy night. Graduate school and four decades have passed and yet I still find myself reflecting from time to time on the teacher who cared for me. and the year I discarded my Invisible Cloak.