ideas, stories

Definitely one of my favorite short stories–also a true story, which makes it all the better.

Old Horse was the algebra instructor at the school where I teach. I don’t remember his real name anymore. But he had a long face with a big, square teeth, and so the students called him “Old Horse.”

Perhaps they would have liked him more if he hadn’t been so sarcastic. With his cutting remarks, Old Horse could force the most brazen student to stare at the floor in silence. Even the faculty had a healthy respect for his sharp tongue.

One day a boy named Jenkins flared back at Old Horse, “But I don’t understand this,” pointing to a part of the problem on the board.

“I’m doing the best I can considering the material I have to work with,” said Old Horse.

“You’re trying to make a jackass out of me,” said Jenkins, his face turning red.

“But, Jenkins, you make it so easy for me,” said Old Horse—and Jenkin’s eyes retreated to the floor.

Old Horse retired shortly after I came. Something went wrong with his liver or stomach and so he left. No one heard from him again.

One day, however, not too long before Old Horse left, a new boy came to school. Because he had buck teeth and a hare lip, everybody called him Rabbit. No one seemed to like Rabbit either. Most of the time he stood by himself chewing his fingernails.

Since Rabbit came to school in the middle of October, he had make-up work to do in algebra every day after school. Old Horse was surprisingly patient during these sessions. He would explain anything Rabbit asked. Rabbit in turn always did his homework. In fact, he came early to class, if he could manage it. Then, after the lesson, he would walk with Old Horse to the parking lot. One Friday, because of a faculty meeting, Old Horse didn’t meet with Rabbit. This afternoon I walked with Old Horse. We were passing the athletic field when suddenly he stopped and pointed. “What’s the matter with that one?” he asked. He was referring to Rabbit, standing alone, chewing his fingernails, while watching some boys pass a football.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why doesn’t he play ball, too?” Old Horse demanded.

“Oh, you know how it is. He came in later than the others, and besides—“

“Besides what?”

“Well, he’s different, you know? He’ll fit in sooner or later.”

“No, no, no. That won’t do. They mustn’t leave him out like that.”

“Then we had to break off our conversation because Rabbit had hurried over to join with us. With a smile, he walked beside his teacher, asking him questions.

Suddenly, one of the boys from the athletic field called out, “Yea, Old Horse! Yea, Old Horse!”, and then he threw back his head and went, “Wheeeeeeeee!” like a horse’s whinny. Rabbit’s face reddened with embarrassment. Old Horse tossed his head, but said nothing.

The next day the students from my fifth hour class came to my room awfully excited. Old Horse had gone too far, they said. He ought to be fired. When I asked what had happened, the said he had picked on Rabbit. He had called on Rabbit first thing and deliberately made him look ridiculous.

Apparently Rabbit had gone to the board with confidence. But when he began to put down some numbers, Old horse said that they looked like animal tracks in the snow. Everyone snickered, and Rabbit got nervous.

Then Old Horse taunted him for a mistake in arithmetic. “No, no, no. Can’t you multiply now? Even a rabbit can do that.”

Everyone laughed, although they were surprised. They thought Rabbit was Old Horse’s pet. By now, Rabbit was so mixed up he just stood there, chewing his fingernails.

“Don’t nibble!” Old Horse shouted. “Those are your fingers, boy, not carrots!”

At that, Rabbit took his seat without being told and put his red face in his hands. But the class wasn’t laughing any more. They were silent with anger at Old Horse.

I went in to see Old Horse after my last class. I found him looking out the window.

“Now listen here—,“ I began, but he waved me into silence.

“Now, now, now, look at that. See?” He pointed to Rabbit walking to the athletic field with one of the boys who had complained about how mean Old Horse had been.

“Doesn’t he have special class with you now?” I asked after a moment.

“He doesn’t need that class anymore,” said Old Horse.

That afternoon I walked with Old Horse to the parking lot. He was in one of his impatient moods, so I didn’t try to say much. Suddenly, from the players on the athletic field, a wild chorus broke out. “Yea, Old Horse! Yea, Old Horse!” And then Rabbit, who was with them, stretched his long neck and screamed, “Wheeeeeeeee!”

Old Horse tossed his head as if a large fly were bothering him. But he said nothing.

photography

It’s from early ’08. It’d been a long and bad week; I woke up early Sunday morning, after not having rested very well (or much), to go run. I saw the sun coming through the front door (a sight I miss) and decided to take a photo before heading out. I did a lot of thinking, praying, and wondering during that run, and by the time I got back, some words had come together in my mind, and they matched (by chance?) with the photo.

esta mañana
dejé de la casa, para correr
y fui acogido
por el sol del amanacer

late sunrise
ideas, other, photography

(written February 6th 2010)

My thoughts, as my bus crossed the 520 bridge today:

There is something about it–I’m not sure I understand it (maybe that’s why it’s so…well…er…hmm…).

The water is broken into so many little pieces by the light breeze, and the sun is shining through a cloudy sky.

It’s not one of those perfect glassy lake days.

In the water’s brokenness, its imperfection, the sunlight sparkles; each wrinkle in the surface, made by a single whisp of breeze, reflects it’s own little claim of sunlight in some direction or another.

And all together, the water, it’s surface so disorganized and cluttered, is beautiful in the light shining on it.

Lake Washington from the 520 bridge
stories

I was riding a late bus home this evening, and I overheard a (loud) conversation: a young woman was telling a young man about an ordeal of her weekend: shopping for a wedding dress with her mom.

Her mom is getting married for the 7th time.

I tried and tried, but for the rest of the bus ride I could not focus on studying.

Brokenness.

ideas, other

I don’t know his last name. He has significant Autism (I didn’t catch the details when he told me about it, it was some specific type). I met him on Saturday, while trying to make some ground on a math project at my favorite cafe. I pulled out a book, and he couldn’t help but notice the publisher (good ‘ol Springer-Verlag…they’re the primary publisher of math texts, and they nigh always bind with a signature yellow cover), so he asked me what I was working on, and we proceeded to talk about math for a while.

Continue Reading

other, stories

The Imperative of Love

You have heard this message from the very beginning:  love one another.

~Yohanan Zibhdi, circa 100 AD

ideas

Way back in the day, my family took a road trip up there; we took the ’88 Ford Club Wagon all the way, Coleman camping trailer in tow. Ah, good times.

Sadly, there’s not much I clearly remember from the trip: one or two particular vistas, a very cold night, a campground-meandering moose, so on and so forth. I only remember a few things well–most of all, the beauty.

I’m sure that if I were a better writer, I could put it into vivid prose, but all I can really say is that the beauty of Alaska is different (on the safe assumption it hasn’t changed too much since then).

There was a peculiar quality the beauty had–a sort of stillness.

It was more than audible noise though–I’ve been to beautiful places,  far enough from civilization to be just as quiet as the places we visited in Alaska. It may well be my long term memory embellishing things, but I swear there was some quality of the beauty itself, this tranquility of sorts.

Now, zip forward a few years (ten, twelve, maybe more?).

By it’s nature, rural education is a risky proposition; there are so many barriers to overcome. I guess I was always aware of that to some level or another, but I never really thought about it. Than again, I never really thought about education too much till a few years ago.

Since I’ve started thinking about education (I don’t know if that happened before or after I decided to go into education–chicken or egg, if you will), I’ve been thinking about rural education. Questions began to drift into a perspective of sorts. Why, why educate kids in the middle of nowhere–will it really mean anything for them, in the long run? Should they be pushed to “escape”, get away from the sticks and “make something” of themselves? What does it really mean for a teenager in an isolated, rural area, to make something of their life?

Whenever I think of rural, I think of a few places: Alaska and Montana come to mind first. “Alaska is what America was.” It’s so pristine and beautiful–so isolated. It also consistently makes the first spot in teenage suicide rates.

So much beauty and peace, and so much emptiness and need.

Disclaimer

If I were to be moving there, I definitely would say so. I’m not moving there..yet. One never knows where all the road ahead leads.

ideas, stories

Sometimes, I wonder how those guys managed to put so much into this song; it just baffles my mind. That’s art, I guess.

Sometimes I cannot forgive
And these days, mercy cuts so deep
If the world was how it should be, maybe I could get some sleep
While I lay, I dream we’re better,
Scales were gone and faces light
When we wake, we hate our brother
We still move to hurt each other
Sometimes I can close my eyes,
And all the fear that keeps me silent falls below my heavy breathing,
What makes me so badly bent?
We all have a chance to murder
We all feel the need for wonder
We still want to be reminded that the pain is worth the thunder

Sometimes when I lose my grip, I wonder what to make of heaven
All the times I thought to reach up
All the times I had to give
Babies underneath their beds
Hospitals that cannot treat all the wounds that money causes,
All the comforts of cathedrals
All the cries of thirsty children – this is our inheritance
All the rage of watching mothers – this is our greatest offense

Oh my God
Oh my God
Oh my God

ideas

..North Korea, and their prison camp system?

It shakes me to the core. I know I’d rather watch a news report about the tragic loss of life in Haiti than a news report about the seriously horrible crimes done against human beings in North Korea every day.

I likely won’t do anything about it. I’m a college student graduating in a few months, and I have lots of interesting ideas, plans, and priorities for the next few years. Who am I to tackle a problem like that?

Sometimes I wish I was going for law instead of education; but sometimes I wish I were more popular, too.

Edit (3/7/10): There are an estimated 200,000 individuals–mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, men and women–in the North Korean concentration camp system.

other

–so says the little indicator window that pops up. Than again, my laptop’s battery is nearly two years old. Whoa, shoot, that was two years ago??