by Ivan Sayles My father was a teacher in Brownsville, Brooklyn for 30 some odd years. We’re all teachers in a way: we teach our kids, employees and underlings everyday. But to teach as a profession, now that is something wonderful. Then every once in awhile there is that “needle in the haystack,” that special teacher that took the tests, passed the classes, has all the credentials hanging on the wall, but has a gift. Do I remember Mr. Rice? Of course I do. Who wouldn’t? Bright orange hair and a beard, bouncing through the hallways, wearing jeans, a smile and patchouli. But that’s not why I remember him. I…