Why is it nostalgia is so much more potent when we’re young? Perhaps it’s simply our general lack of experience, and we’re often thinking, “It can’t get any better than this was,” and so we’re melancholy. Maybe it’s part of the naiveté of youth, but this too is a result of being inexperienced in the cycles of contemporary life.

Of course, there were as many not tearful as there were with glistening cheeks. Perhaps they’re not as sentimental as the rest of us. Perhaps they have more experience in their fourteen years that has taught them the transience of most things. Sadly, it might be that they learned about temporariness from the love, attention, and affection they’ve received.

I have at least one such student every year. I always feel like I let him down. I always look back at the year and see countless opportunities to do more, to be more, for such students.

It leaves me wondering, once again, about the marks of a successful year. Testing-wise, I was very successful: I met my MAP score goals, and my E1H EOC grades average was just where I thought it should be. Yet what use are acronyms in determining a successful year? It seems a relatively shallow metric.

The truth is, I became a teacher because I simply love working with kids. Perhaps a selfish reason: I do get a certain high when I connect with a kid and feel I’ve somehow helped him. It’s hardly altruism, especially considering the times I’m doing the opposite: the moments when the urge to take a ridiculous behavior personally and become viscous becomes overwhelming. So maybe it’s not surprising that I have the depressive phases to go along with the manic moments.

This is all to explain why I’m feeling down even though it’s the end of the year.

Another kid left today that I find myself thinking, “I’d like to have another shot with him.” I’d like to have him in my classroom another year and manage to get myself out of the way and see what he needs and give it to him. His needs were not to be met by following the curriculum or making him play by all the admittedly arbitrary rules of the classroom. There was more going on in his life than iPods and texting friends, and I’ve a suspicion a large amount of it was negative. My class might have been one of the few bright spots in his day, but looking back over the year, I doubt it. I communicated to him all the things I swore I never would express through body language and tone to a student.

I finally caught on at the end of the year. (Why did it take so damn long? I knew — I had a similar student last year, and I swore I wouldn’t do what I did this year.) While other students were working on a final project, I realized the project might easily turn into yet another zero for him, and so I differentiated: I had him write an essay on three things he could do next year to meet with more success in the classroom. I gave him a pencil and a legal pad (he seldom had materials), and he always replaced the items on my desk at the end of the class.

What I read when he was done was a stinging condemnation, though he was polite in his tone and word choice. He didn’t even mean to condemn me. He just shared some feelings. Feelings of inadequacy that I fear I only heightened. Feelings of hopelessness that I worry I did nothing to assuage. Feelings of being trapped and only vaguely realizing it.

Real success in the classroom is not measured in completed assignments and MAP/ITBS/PASS scores. Success in the classroom is measured with a metric that, like black holes and dark matter, is hypothetical at best. We can infer it from a student’s smile, or a boy’s pride at walking into class having pencil and paper, or a girl’s wide eyes at getting a C on a test.

I forget this too often.

The school year ended today. It was as I predicted: lots of joy, fair amounts of crying. One girl said, “It’s not going to hit me until tonight. Then I’ll be sad.” And another student added, “And happy, cause we’re in high school.”

I know just how they feel. If only I can keep all this in mind until next August, when I’ll surely another Denny.

Both Reagan and Bush 45 reported that Pakistan was not engaged in nuclear research and development even when there was ample intelligence to suggest — no, to prove — otherwise. Due to inter- and intra- department squabbling, the intelligence never made it to Congress.

Indeed, as some government agencies were trying to keep up with and report the nuclear development of Pakistan, other agencies slowed the investigations up — or worse. As some government agencies tried to shut down the Pakistanis’ purchase of equipment used in making centrifuges, the State Department was tipping off the various Pakistani purchasers. (167) Busts came to naught because the Pakistani purchasing agents never showed up or were long gone by the time authorities arrived.

In the meantime, Congress was pumping millions of dollars to Afghanistan through Pakistan, and providing additional direct aid to Pakistan. Significant portions of this aid was funneled to the Pakistani nuclear program. In other words, the US taxpayers financed Pakistan’s nuclear program.

Clinton was no better, and Bush 47 cozied up to the man who actively encouraged the creation of the Taliban and terrorist organizations. Bush repeatedly called Musharraf our friend and ally when he was anything but. However, Afghanistan once again trumped everything, and once again, we displayed a willful short-sightedness that is, especially in retrospect, ineffably stupid.

Just how bad was “Mush”? In 1988, Musharraf had a “tribal band of Pashtun and Sunni irregulars” reignite the Kashmir uprising. Rather than involve the army proper, Musharraf relied on the efforts of a mercenary named Osama bin Laden. Around the same time, Musharraf also had a plan to inject thousands of jihadis into Kashmir by graduates of the Markaz Dawa Al Irshad join the newly-formed Lashkar-e-Taiba. Twenty years later, Lashkar-e-Taiba would carry out an attack on Bombay, India that killed 173 people.

All the while, other intelligence agencies were warning us. Our first round of mujahideen funding in Afghanistan went so well that they eventually became the Taliban — we funded our own enemy. However, there were plenty of intelligence organs that saw this coming, and even warned America:

The joint intelligence committee in New Delhi [...] presented a file of evidence to the US, warning that fundamentalist were being infiltrated into Kashmir and Musharraf was at the helm. They asked the US to consider where these fighters would go next, when they grew bored with the Kashmiri war or had been forced from the territory by the military reprisals that India was now planning. Naresh Chandra, India’s former ambassador to Washington, recalled: “The US was not interested. I was shouting and no one in the State Department or elsewhere could have cared less.”

The Clinton administration stood back. Pakistan escalated. The Islamic Republic’s strategy in Kashmir dovetailed with another of Musharraf’s policies, the promotion of the Taliban. (240)

Lastly, there’s Iraq and the question of proliferation. We went into Iraq for fear of WMDs and proliferation thereof. Supposedly, we had good intelligence. The problem is, we had better intelligence that Pakistan was proliferating like a rabbit:

• Iran
• Iraq (attempted; Saddam thought it was a set-up and didn’t buy it.)
• North Korea
• Libya
• Syria

Pakistan was — and still is — the true danger. As the book concludes, if when there is a terrorist nuclear bombing of an American or European city, the know-how, materials, or even the device itself will be traced back to Pakistan.

Such an odd thing: we’ve spent 170+ days working together, and we’re all sick of each other, rather like a family on a long vacation. A bit of time apart and all would be well. Yet “a bit of time apart” is impossible: the students move on, and we teachers remain, waiting for the next group.

It’s as if we’re on a cosmic treadmill. We take a few steps with the kids, and though we all (teachers, students, parents, administrators) keep walking, the students slowly move on ahead of us teachers, occasionally looking back with a smile of thanks, occasionally staring straight ahead, occasionally — tragically — looking down.

“I’m so sick of all this,” we all mutter, but come what may, there will be tears on the final day, and I’ll probably be accused of laughing at someone’s tears as I was last year. “No, no, I’m not laughing at you,” I’ll insist. “I’m just smiling because it’s all rather sweet.”

It’s this time of year that I start making resolutions for the next year. Knee deep in all the mistakes I’ve made this year, I resolve not to do this or that, promise myself to be more systematic about some thing or other, commit myself publicly to more of this, less of that. I’ve a six-page, detailed outline of changes I’ll be making in one course next year, and I’ve only just begun recording my thoughts and plans. (A lesson learned from last year: all the brilliant ideas one has about changes to this or that unit tend to disappear the day school is out.)

And in the midst of all this planning for next year while making sure this year ends positively and productively comes a call from a parent. The long conversation includes a story about how her son came into my class apprehensive. Now he admits that the class is “alright” because I’m a “cool” teacher.

And another student sends me an email: “Thank you for helping me get through this year maintaining my grades.”

Bittersweet moments, indeed.

And there’s the rub.

John Paul II writes,

Christ wants to awaken human hearts. He wants them to respond to the word of the Father, but he wants this in full respect for human dignity. In the very search for faith an implicit faith is already present, and therefore the necessary condition for salvation is already satisfied. (193)

I’ve read that a dozen times, and it brings a smile each time. It’s not that I’m thinking, “I’m searching, so I’m home free!” Rather, there’s been this sense, this ineffable feeling, that this working on faith is itself a kind of faith.

The old adage about longest journeys and first steps isn’t merely an empty cliche. In picking up my foot, I have to have a certain kind of — dare I say it? — faith that it will land on solid ground. I take this for granted daily, but only because it has been confirmed again and again. And because I constantly and unconsciously check my environment countless times as I walk to make sure I am on firm ground. Yet infants don’t have that experience, and each step is an adventure.

This surely is what Paul had in mind when he wrote of “mere babes in Christ.”

The community of believers was of one heart and mind, and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they had everything in common. [...] There was no needy person among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them, bring the proceeds of the sale, and put them at the feet of the Apostles, and they were distributed to each according to need. (Acts 4:32, 34, 35)

Conservatives descry “redistribution of wealth,” but on the surface, this certainly appears to be an apt description what’s going on here. Many commentators have noted the sharing involved in the early church, and this sounds positively communistic.

What’s the difference? On the face of it, the voluntary nature is the most obvious. There’s no indication that anyone commanded these believers to surrender their relative wealth. Further, there’s no indication that the Apostles used guilt as a motivator. This is in clear contrast with what many televangelists have done throughout the years.

The Gospel

Knowing and knowledge appear twice in the same week. Perhaps that’s intentional?

The Gospel reading for today was the story of Nicodemus. In the midst of this story I’d heard so many times growing up, something new: “[W]e speak of what we know and we testify to what we have seen, but you people do not accept our testimony.” It’s interesting that Jesus presents a dichotomy: “what we know” is not necessarily “what we have seen.” Reliance only on the latter to inform the former is the materialism I’ve embraced for so many years. They’re not necessarily the same, and to insist that they are identical is limiting.

It all calls to mind, once again, the division William James makes about those who seek truth versus those who avoid error. In being a strict materialist, I felt I was avoiding all error because I was relying on my senses or others’ senses. Yet in relying on others, I’m essentially relying on their testimony. Granted, with many matters (particularly science), I can verify what others testify by observing things in question for myself. But in reality that only represents a small fraction of knowledge available.

This is essentially what I’m wrestling with: can I trust the testimony of the authors of scripture? I don’t yet have an answer for that

On the evening of that first day of the week, when the doors were locked, where the disciples were, for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood in their midst and said to them, “Peace be with you.” When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side. The disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.”

Thomas, called Didymus, one of the Twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples said to him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nailmarks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

Now a week later his disciples were again inside and Thomas was with them. Jesus came, although the doors were locked, and stood in their midst and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands, and bring your hand and put it into my side, and do not be unbelieving, but believe.” Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.”

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written that  you may come to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name.

That is I: show me the nail marks. Give me proof. But it’s more than that, because I’ve always been able to explain away everything like a good materialist.

This proof mentality is a direct result of my religious upbringing, because everything not only could but should be proved. Never mind that the proving was little more than proof-texting, ripping verses completely out of context to back up a Victorian-era pet conspiracy theory. But believing doesn’t require that kind of proof. I’m growing strangely comfortable with that.

When the film Dogma was released, I remember seeing protest letters proudly displayed in the art house theater were I watched it. Catholics were angry and offended. I scoffed at their hypersensitivity, and even now, I have no major issues with a film that mocks this or that religion. We’re all adults. Still, there is one element of the film that lingered in my mind, and oddly enough, it’s framing how I view proof and certainty. Rufus, the thirteenth apostle, asks the main protagonist, Bethany, about the certainty of her newly-found religious belief. “I have a pretty good idea,” replied Bethany, and Rufus smiles approvingly.

A “pretty good idea” works well for me right now.

Read these two sentences:

• The odor of the blossoms drifted across the field.
• The fragrance of the blossoms drifted across the field.

What is the primary difference between these two statements:

1. connection
2. connotation
3. context
4. conceptualization[1. Not the actual question, nor realistic choices.]

She’s selected “connotation,” but she’s not sure. She clicks “context” and then “connotation” again. She clicks back and forth, several times.

I linger to see what decision she makes. I cross my fingers, hold my breath, hope that she’s going to select the right answer. Glancing away for a brief moment, I’m disappointed to see that she’s made her selection while my attention was diverted. Being forbidden to discuss the test, I’ll never know if she got it right.

There’s a lot pedagogically wrong with that simple fact. [2. This is not to disparage the MAP test. It's actually a fairly useful tool.]

Part of it is that I’m still not sure where that chip will land (to continue the cliche/metaphor). I can say with some assurance now that I am no longer a strong atheist — one who declares, “I know there is no God!” — but I waver between weak atheism/agnosticism and some kind of Jello-belief: wiggly and strangely pretty, but not really certain.

Today, I got through the first two words before the thoughts started rushing. “Our father” — such a simple concept, and yet so foreign for some. A few hours after my interrupted prayer, I began reading one student’s journal. This child, from a patchwork family that has led to iffy social skills and a severe lack of self-confidence, did more for me in a few words than I probably have done for her all year, making me feel both elated and guilty.

The student wrote about her  biological father, expressing disbelief that one could have a child with someone and “end up not liking them.” There’s a glimmer of hope there: awareness might help her avoid a similar situation. The odds are against her, especially given the example she’s been given, as poignantly show in the following sentence: “One day I do believe that he will come around more because my friends get to see their daddy but I don’t. It’s just not right.”

Here is a whole group of adolescents living without their fathers, with one on the fringe intensely jealous of those who merely get to see their fathers. No mention of living with them — merely getting to see them.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis

The atheist in me would cry out, “We don’t need him in heaven; we need him here on earth.” Not an insightful comment, nor a particularly original one: the absent God — the hidden God — is a common motif in Judaism and Christianity. Yet the hidden father is a motif all too common in our contemporary society, and that absence is more readily noticeable.

It’s easy to see why Freud made the comparison he did — who wouldn’t want a perfect father? These children: they’re not looking for perfect, just present.