When I reflect on my years in school, one particular figure stands out like a beacon in the fog of homogeneous lesson plans and conventional classrooms: Mr. Wesley Hart. His teaching methods were so unconventional that for many years after graduating, I found myself telling anyone who would listen about the marvelous eccentricities of this incredible man.

For most of us in high school, the bell schedule dictated the rhythm of our days. First period was math, where each of us would quietly solve problems from a textbook. Then, we’d shuffle to history class, where the teacher’s droning, rote memorization techniques left us battling to keep our eyes open. Next was science, where we meticulously followed laboratory procedures. This cycle repeated itself, class after class, day after day.

Until, that is, we reached Mr. Hart’s literature class. Mr. Hart’s classroom didn’t have the monotonous rows of desks facing a chalkboard; instead, it had bean bags, mismatched sofas, and walls plastered with posters of literary greats. On one wall, a giant mural of Shakespeare, Twain, and Angelou playing poker with absurdly oversized cards; on another, an abstract painting that Mr. Hart claimed was a “visual representation of storytelling’s soul.” We’d often catch him staring at it, a wistful look in his eye.

Mr. Hart believed that the physical environment of a classroom could ‘liberate the mind’—a phrase he often said with such genuine conviction that even the most pragmatic among us couldn’t help but entertain the possibility he might be right.

Every Monday morning, rather than open a textbook, Mr. Hart would declare, “Welcome to the Weekly Voyage!” and regale us with a peculiar and enticing story. These stories didn’t come from the syllabus but were from his own treasure trove of life experiences. There was the time he lived with a remote tribe in Papua New Guinea, or the summer he dedicated to learning the art of French cuisine in a quaint village in Provence. Each tale was more mesmerizing than the last. By the end of each story, without us even realizing it, he would seamlessly weave in literary themes and historical contexts that aligned with the curriculum.

One of Mr. Hart’s more memorable teaching experinces occurred when we were studying “Moby Dick.” Rather than assign an essay on Ahab’s obsession, he took us on a nighttime adventure. We met at the school’s sports field where, guided by the glow of lanterns, he handed each of us an excerpt from the book printed on parchment. The evening air was thick with anticipation and the smell of the grass as we gathered in a circle.

“In the spirit of Melville’s seafaring men, we will share our thoughts under the stars, with the distant calls of the night as our only backdrop,” he announced. He then asked us to read our excerpts aloud and relate them to modern-day situations and personal experiences. Under the quiet hum of the night, reality intertwined with fiction, and I, for one, found the themes far more profound in that starlit, open-air classroom.

Mr. Hart’s unconventional methods extended beyond literature. He was an advocate for life skills and emotional intelligence, which he seamlessly incorporated into his curriculum. One notable instance was during our study of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Instead of merely dissecting the text for its literary merit and historical context, Mr. Hart invited a civil rights lawyer to the class. The lawyer shared harrowing and inspiring stories, helping us understand racial injustice not just from a literary perspective, but as a pervasive and ongoing issue.

The climax of Mr. Hart’s unconventionality came during my senior year. He announced a ‘Drama Day,’ during which we would perform skits based on different genres of literature—from Greek tragedies to modern-day plays. When Drama Day arrived, students transformed into their characters with gusto. School hallways echoed with monologues and dialogues, as the lines between past and present blurred. Even the students typically uninterested in literature seemed to come alive as they portrayed characters navigating the complexities of the human condition.

And Mr. Hart? He floated around the school, dressed as Shakespeare’s Puck, hands dusted with make-believe fairy powder, a testament to the worlds he had encouraged us to explore.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson I learned from Mr. Hart wasn’t about literature or history, though those came alive under his guidance. It was that learning is a voyage, where curiosity and passion are the sails propelling us forward. Mr. Hart taught us to question, to wonder, and to see the world as an endless storybook filled with lessons waiting to be discovered.

Years later, I found myself at a coffee shop reading a weathered copy of “The Alchemist.” I noticed an elderly man at the next table, perusing the same book. With a jolt, I realized it was Mr. Hart. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and yet the aura of childlike curiosity and unbridled passion for storytelling still radiated from him.

“Mr. Hart?” I ventured, unsure if he would remember me.

He looked up, and a wide smile spread across his face. “Ah, Tina! The wanderer of words. How are you?”

We caught up over coffee, and I told him how his unconventional methods had inspired me to pursue a career in education myself. As we parted ways, he handed me a small, crumpled piece of paper. “For your voyage,” he said with a wink.

Later, I unfolded the note to find a quote from “The Alchemist”: “And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

In that moment, I realized that my story had come full circle, and I knew that I would always carry with me the lessons of that unconventional teacher who changed my life.

So here’s to Mr. Hart and all the unconventional teachers who dare to defy norms to show us the magic in the mundane, the adventure in the ordinary, and that sometimes, the best classrooms have no walls.