Neerav

When I was nine, our teacher made us write letters to "our heroes" for a writing unit. Most kids chose their parents, or Michael Jordan, or the President. For some reason, I was deeply obsessed with the golden age of piracy, so I wrote my letter to Blackbeard. It was a very aggressive letter demanding to know where he hid his treasure and warning him that "the British Navy is coming for you." My teacher, Mrs. Gable, instead of explaining that Blackbeard had been dead since 1718, actually looked up a historical museum in Ocracoke, North Carolina, and mailed the letter there. Three months later, I got a package at school. It was a hand-stained parchment scroll sealed with actual red wax. The museum staff had written back in character as Blackbeard’s ghost, telling me the treasure was "buried in the minds of those who read books" (which was a bit of a cop-out, honestly), but they also included a replica Spanish piece of eight. I was the coolest kid in third grade for a week.