From pre-school through third grade, I attended a Montessori School. This education system is notoriously independent and freewheeling. We learned the number system by playing with a tower of pink blocks, long division with beads and a chess-board; there were no desks, no set schedule and no homework— in fact, we often made up our own equations to bring home just for fun. Grammar was taught through a system of colors and shapes, while the big bang theory was explained using a frying pan and confetti. Sure, my school was different from most, but I am thankful for having had a flexible curriculum and resourceful teachers that embraced my creative spirit, encouraging me to learn for the sake of knowledge itself.
My second grade teacher, Mr. J, would often read stories to our class during the post-lunchtime slump (typically, this occurred just after we had fed Izzy, the pet snake, and just before we would head out to build the “Tiger Pit Fort” in the woods behind the playground). Sometimes, if we were lucky, Mr. J would play his guitar and sing songs that he wrote himself. But my favorite part of the day was story time, a custom we had never quite outgrown— even in second grade. Mr. J’s picks ranged from Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone— before it had been released in the United States— to The Hound of The Baskervilles and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. No matter what, he always made us look forward to this time of day.
One afternoon, he began Roald Dahl’s The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar. I was immediately engrossed in this tale, which was slightly chilling and deeply profound for an 8-year-old. In the story, Henry Sugar finds a report about mediation and extraordinary human capabilities. We get to explore this mystical world alongside Henry, learning about the dark side of human nature and the perils of greed and power. After he finished the story, I knew it’d be haunting me for quite some time… and it did do just that. I recall being in eighth grade, faintly remembering the tale of Henry Sugar, tracking it down at my school library during recess. Years later, I still often find myself thinking of Mr. J’s classroom and the wonderful book that discovered me there.