Not Being a Madman

 I only regret not being a child, since then I could believe in my dreams, and not being a madman, since then I could keep everyone around me from getting close to my soul . . .

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, text 127

Yesterday I was sitting in my office at school talking to my officemate Erik. I think we were both in a sad mood (or maybe I'm actually meant to move to Portugal because I naturally possess more than my fair share of their famed saudade). It may have been simply because it was a Monday - or maybe it was because our students were wearing us down - or maybe it was because of this Trumpian avalanche of hatred and madness that is burying all of us, but the mood of the discussion was pretty grim. I found myself proposing that what made this time in history so horrible was that we're teachers, and everything about it spoke to the failure of everything we've worked at for years; or, in my case, decades, since I gave my first individual lecture in 1982 and taught my first free-standing class in 1984). Weren't we supposed to teach our students to think, certainly, but also to feel? To understand the world? Is this one of the hallmarks of when it's time to retire, when you stop believing in your dreams - and could still clearly remember a time when you did? In regards to the second part of Pessoa's point, I think all of us are feeling more than a little violated at the moment. I'm definitely feeling it, which is why I'm actively turning away from the news and social media, and disappearing into books and also this blog. Maybe being considered a madman (or being considered a madman by more people) would actually bring some peace.