Mr. Jackson was my 12th grade English teacher. I was a slacker. Several of my previous teachers had confirmed that fact. Mr. Jackson never gave up on me. He never came close to an insulting comment or anything that I as a hypersensitive student could misconstrue as malintended. I was lazy in his class, but he gave me chances. He told me he wanted me to do well. I believed him. Not only did I believe that, I also believed that he believed that his subject was something truly special. We were reading Canterbury Tales, Macbeth, and many other writings. Mr Jackson didn’t just have us read Canterbury tales. We were in it. We became part of it. I remember creating monk costumes and parading around the school chanting Gregorian chants. He stayed over night at the school one night to roast a whole pig. Some students and their parents joined him to keep him company. The next day everybody brought in something for the feast and dressed as our characters we became a part of that story. That was amazing. He didn’t have to do any of that. Then came Shakespeare? I mean are you kidding me… I was