Just finished this novel this morning, having read it over the past few weeks while sitting in hospital rooms and waiting for Lisa to heal. It’s a war novel, yes, one that describes the conflict in Vietnam in now recognizable ways — apathy, poor leadership, anguish over loss — but has a few wrinkles I liked:

One, he deals head on with issues of race. The conflict between a foxhole friend and the reality of race in American life serves as a constant throughout the novel; this conflict produces a terrible moment near the end of the book, but in a way I didn’t anticipate. How do you empower a people? How do you fight back against racism in every day interactions and against the racism embedded in the structures that produce that racism? I don’t know if Marlantes is white or black and I wondered if black veterans would recognize the stories he was telling.

Two, it’s a story of functioning within an institution. Maybe it’s the end of the school year, maybe it’s that we’re trying to build a new school, but all of these players were instantly recognizable:

the young, ambitious person serving in a position they see as temporary
the lifer trying to survive and possibly prosper in an institution that is chewing up everyone around them
the accidental mid-level leader whose decisions have life or death impact, whose only real problem is their inability to see past the end of their nose
the glory focused leader who has lost total contact with the day-to-day life of the individuals they’re charged with leading

Karl Marlantes, Matterhorn: a Novel of the Vietnam War (New York; [Berkeley, Calif.]: Grove Press?; Distributed by Publishers Group West, 2011).

Radishes! Thinned the Kale and the Collards and had a microgreen feast of too much garlic, too few onions, and much bitterness.

Backyard

Frontyard

Swiss Chard — Beets — Carrots — Carrots — Beets — Kale — Collards

Sideyard

Peas — Spinach

Ta-Nehisi Coates, with another short essay I’ll likely be using in a classroom someday. In trying to find this article, I found all manner of internet commentary, most of which drew into relief the questions I’d ask a group:

who does this code apply to? what would a code created by young Asian men look like? By Hispanic women? By white lacrosse players living in the suburbs?

And what do these codes mean in the face of how power is distributed in society? Whose behavior gets laughed as “boys-will-be-boys” and whose behavior lands people in jail?”

Then there’s a personal essay by Brittany Griner. This is money:

It’s taken me a long time to figure out exactly where I fit. During that journey, I realized that everyone has a unique place in this world. I also discovered that the more open I was with my family and friends, the more I embraced others, and the more committed I became to doing the things I love, like basketball, skating and, of course, eating bacon (the greatest food of all time), the more love and confidence I received in return.

I just had to hang in there and be myself.

The more open I was with my family and friends, the more I embraced them, and the more committed I became to doing the things I love, the more love and confidence I received in return.

After pulling out my particular brand of Peruvian Dark Roast, grinding in an outrageously expensive Burr Grinder, scooping exactly 12 1/3 scoops of coffee into my French Press, boiling water but then letting it cool to exactly 208 degrees, steeping the coffee for exactly six minutes, pouring 10 oz into my favorite cup along with 1 tbsp of half and half and 1 tbsp of sugar, I sat down to read the New York Times magazine only to find this piece.

Favorite quote:
I am secretly obsessed with the idea of perfect anything. I am weak and searching and desperate, just once, to have a perfect thing.

Having just spent entirely too much time and energy on my perfect cup of coffee, I feel you Mr. Maron.

So I’m running home today, 5.72 miles via the 76 access roads, listening to the music I’ve always liked but now have critical approval for, and I hear this line again:

“And this is for the questions that don’t have any answers.”

It’s been a tough week. Cancer roared back into my life the week I observed a loss from 25 years ago. We’re working crazy hours to keep our students on track and grow our new school.

So much of teaching and parenting is about dealing with the questions that have no answers. How do I inspire kids? How do help my own children cope with the issues I still struggle with? How do we found a school that’s true to our own ideals and gives kids honest post-graduation choices? How do we create individual solutions for kids facing massive structural inequalities?

I can’t answer these questions — they have good and better answers — but I can try. That’s all I can do. And I can look with bemused attachment, if not compassion, at those who have believe that the truly important questions in life have easily defined answers.

Well, today has been a sad ol’ lonesome day
Yeah, today has been a sad ol’ lonesome day
I’m just sittin’ here thinking
With my mind a million miles away.

Lyrics, dude, recite ’em some lyrics.

Telegraph Road
Dire Straights

A long time ago came a man on a track
Walking thirty miles with a pack on his back
And he put down his load where he thought it was the best
Made a home in the wilderness
He built a cabin and a winter store
And he ploughed up the ground by the cold lake shore
And the other travellers came riding down the track
And they never went further, no, they never went back
Then came the churches then came the schools
Then came the lawyers then came the rules…

Read this poem today with the students, from The Paris Review.

Favorite lines:

Once I entered, I never left
and never stopped going back;
and I’ve never got away from
the aura of toolshops.
It’s like my home ground,
it teaches me useless things,
it drowns me like nostalgia.

Tried to drive at the question of what will be there home ground in five years…what will be their “Tool Shop” when they get older.