During my tumultuous sophomore year, notorious for its high stress and low fun, one English teacher transformed what could have been drab lessons into exhilarating theatre sessions. Picture this: trying not to crack up as Hamlet's deep soliloquies are delivered by what sounds like a cranky old timer from Brooklyn.

This teacher was more than just a fan of English; he was a veritable one-person show. Every character we studied was brought to life with a distinct voice, turning our readings of Shakespeare into pure entertainment and every session into a stand-up routine. Here we were, a bunch of serious tenth graders, struggling to stifle our laughter as Mr Darcy made his amorous declarations to Elizabeth Bennet in what could only be described as the tone of a heartsick pirate.

It wasn't just fun and games, though. Regarding writing, this teacher had an eagle eye for the smallest errors. He would take my essays—those scribbled attempts at English—and patiently help me decipher and rearrange my jumbled thoughts. "Let's decode this together," he suggested, ensuring I never felt discouraged over my less-than-perfect drafts. Those sessions were invaluable; my writing skills and self-assurance grew by leaps and bounds.

He also loved to challenge our thinking with his bold interpretations. For example, he could convincingly argue why Jay Gatsby might be a more effective role model than Mother Teresa, prompting you to rethink your assumptions. His provocative insights kept us intellectually agile, ready to tackle or unravel his latest bewildering theory.

As I say farewell to these unforgettable English classes, I must applaud a teacher who brought humour, critical thinking, and lively debates into our lives. He breathed life into literature in ways no film or YouTube clip could match. Thanks to him, I'm more adept at navigating the complexities of English and appreciating the diverse viewpoints of others. Plus, I've perfected a solid pirate accent, should the need arise!