The room was always dark, the shades, which were covered in scribbles of bored 8th graders, had to be down, or else no one would be able to see the image from the old overhead projector. You could never be sure if the math teacher was in the room draped in shadows, or if he was checking the halls and bathrooms looking for ditchers. On Mondays the projector would whirr to life to show photos of the math teacher’s family or dog or maybe something he did over the weekend. The rest of the week however, it showed a white paper with scribbles on it, an algebra problem! Most people entered the class with a groan, dragging their feet as they traversed the classroom to their desk, or maybe pausing to examine the Ramsey Ram “give 110%” poster like they were seeing it for the first time. This wasn't the case for me, while I didn't love doing them, they were easy, and I would usually be done before class actually started. I would casually walk to my desk in the back of the room and take my seat before the bell rang. This room was not only my 8th grade Algebra class, and my homeroom, but it is also the room that changed who I am.