There’s always that little box on the login page, “Remember me”.  If you check it, you never have to enter your login or password again, if you leave it empty, it’s like you never were.  I like to leave it empty for fear of identity theft and other modern day assaults, but on this particular day, I checked the Remember me box for personal reasons.  I’d like to be remembered.  I’d like to imagine that I’ve left a mark on this world, that a generation from now I won’t be a misspelled name on someone’s family tree somewhere.  Wouldn’t you.

I’d also like to say I’ve got something fantastic on my mind to float into the world, but I don’t.  I’ve spent many blank moments trying to think of something relevant that I have to talk about, all the historic and heroic chaos in the Middle East, the incessant mention of Charlie Sheen on world news channels, the weather changing to spring right before my eyes, the devastating crisis in Japan.  I know there is much to be said, but for those things I have no intelligent words.  However disappointing.

I’ve recently experienced a personal loss, and there’s been soft slow syrup of reason running through my mind, and I’m sorry to say it, but sometimes… that’s all I’ve got.  If I were a musician I’d write it into a song, let the people sing it, fill their own lives into my personal and specific feelings.  If I were a child I would cry.  Nap.  Watch an extra movie in my day.  Sleep on Mom and Dad’s floor.  Seems there’s nothing worth doing.  I’ve found my fury has waned, as age has grown thick on me.  What would have thrown me up in arms now rolls off my back like rain.  It finds the dry ground and is whisked away.  Gone.  The volume turned down.  There’s nothing worth staying home for.  Nothing worth adding more wrinkles to my eyes with hysterical crying, no purpose in sessions of ranting or sobbing, or running.  Today is better lived in peace than washed away with emotions tide.  The eyes in the rear view mirror still look the same.  Maybe a little worse for wear, but not so different that I can’t remember their fits of elation, disappointment, loneliness, giddy infatuation.  To scream might turn some heads, but what more.  If I may borrow the words of mediocre failures throughout eternity, what’s the use?

The rain one morning was offensive.  Huge drops of slush banging on my windshield, melting on contact.  The illusion of a rainy day but harsher, less fulfilling.  Confusing.  Each one the nemesis to my silence.   Glad to be under bridges, parked in garage.  Refuge and silence.  Stop smacking me!  Feels like it’s been years since I could go outside and feel the fresh air on my face.  Winters dreary has crawled inside my coat, keeps me cold, even as the days warm up.  What is this place?  How much longer must I remain?

The week will go by, has gone by.  Tears, sure.  And why not.  I’d say I feel better, but I’m pretty sure Daylight Savings time doesn’t make it this hard for everyone to get out of bed in the morning.  Either way is fine.  It won’t be long now; I’m due for a rebound.

Lucky for me, the dirt in my garden is exposed, and my driveway hoop is calling.  Lucky for me the father most chastises the son who is to receive the inheritance.  Promises have been made.  It has been marked as pleasure.  It has been marked.  Not to mention the plans.  I have plans.  Haven’t you heard.

(In closing, the following is an excerpt from Wikipedia.  It describes the creation of a marble sculpture.  If you so desire, feel free to join me in looking upon it with anticipation.  Breathe it in.)

“The carver usually begins by knocking off, or “pitching”, large portions of unwanted stone.  The carver places the point of the chisel or the edge of the pitching tool against a selected part of the stone, then swings the mallet at it with a controlled stroke. He must be careful to strike the end of the tool accurately; the smallest miscalculation can damage the stone, not to mention the sculptor’s hand. When the mallet connects to the tool, energy is transferred along the tool, shattering the stone.  This is the “roughing out” stage of the sculpting process.  Once the general shape of the statue has been determined, the sculptor uses other tools to refine the figure.  These tools are generally used to add texture to the figure.  Eventually the sculptor has changed the stone from a rough block into the general shape of the finished statue. Tools called rasps and rifflers are then used to enhance the shape into its final form.  The sculptor uses broad, sweeping strokes to remove excess stone as small chips or dust.  The final stage of the carving process is polishing.  This abrading, or wearing away, brings out the color of the stone, reveals patterns in the surface and adds a sheen.”

So I jumped on my good friend Wikipedia to see how long I would need to wait to get my hands on this paper.  Call me uninformed, but I had no idea about what I would find.  Turns out that the official word is at least two hundred years!  If you can even believe it, that tower has been “stabilized”, that’s right, “stabilized”.  The threatening lean is just an illusion now.   Major restoration efforts in recent years have removed dirt from the raised side of the tower’s foundation- successfully.  For the first time in History, it has stopped moving!  It is not falling!

Even more interesting is that the tower itself was built crooked.  In the 12th Century they reached the third floor of construction only to discover that wet foundation was causing the tower to lean so drastically that construction was halted.  A century later, the tower was finished, crooked, on purpose.  On purpose!  They intentionally built the last four floors taller on the lower leaning side, and the staircase uneven to assist in longevity.  Maybe I’m the only one who had no idea about this, but I am shocked.  That changes everything!  Here I thought that there was this miraculous tower, built in perfectly straight glory so long ago, stretching it’s Gothic pillars to the sky, now still standing against all odds, against even the un-tamable force of gravity!  That’s what makes it a wonder of the world isn’t it, that gave it its popularity?  But no, it’s just a crooked old building, intentionally built that way, and maintained that way through centuries of human intervention.  So why is it such a tourist attraction, such a well-known piece of architectural history, an icon in our time?

I realize that I often assess the value of knowledge based on my ability to over personalize it, so here’s what I’ve come up with.  That overrated tower is just like me.  And maybe you.  Probably not all of you, some of you probably built your lives on a strong foundation, tested and sturdy.  You worked diligently and measured each brick against your blueprint for success as you added each layer, as you watched them growing up towards the sky, each floor complimentary to the one on which it rested.  Undoubtedly even for you, there were revisions along the way, major plan changes, surprises, blessings, compromises, devastating losses that brought you to question the whole damn thing, gashes that ate away at your humanity, maybe entire rooms full of tragedy, confusion, elation, or awakening, that weren’t in the original designs.  Love, pieces of your heart.  But your tower stands tall and straight, because of and in spite of all of those things.  And your project continues.

Maybe it’s your sister or brother that is leaning :o)  For us, crooked structures halted in construction along the way, possibly time and time again, maybe we reached the third floor only to realize that to build on would lead to our certain demise.  Maybe our foundation flooded us out, or we started building before the foundation had settled.  So what do we do, we intentionally adjust.  Maybe a century later.  We muster up the caution to build each proceeding floor in order to balance the one below.  Our rooms of surprises, blessings, tragedy, elation, and awakening are visibly uneven.  Love.  Each floor with one side taller than the other, directing us higher and decreasing the angle to which we lean.  And then we find that we want better that than, more permanent, less likely to succumb to gravity, so we dig.  We cannot go back and add dirt to our foundation, but we reach a height where we can clearly see the angle at which we need to dig.  And our project continues.

So after all the beautiful buildings that our society has torn down to build “parking lots,” why will we never let the Leaning Tower of Pisa fall to its shattering death?… because we love that imperfect piece of high maintenance stone.   We as imperfect people walking through the perfect angles of our lives have a special affection for Pisa.  It’s one of the only honest creations of humanity.  We are a race of striving, progressive, perfecting people.  We master things, tame them, stabilize them.  We package our lives in summarized Christmas card adjectives and tie bows around them before presenting them to the people around us, even the people who love us.  Even our grief we share neatly in the presence of acceptable instruments of sadness: movies about people who overcome special needs, pictures of military men and women embracing their children in an airport.  These things are approved outlets for our sadness.  We fight with our family instead of crying for them in our loving concern.  We soak up the snot and tears in disposable kleenexes and then throw them away to disintegrate in a covered landfill.  Even our excitement we corral: permission to kiss at our own wedding, our inside voices, and the meaningfulness of a standing ovation.  We wait for the opportunity to unbridle our favor and scream ENCORE!  It is our straight tower.  It works for us.  It keeps us on track.  We have decided that this helps us to continue in our projects.  But not Pisa.  Pisa is exposed.  Only seven stories high and it competes in the ring of national attention with the tallest structures made by man.  Its glaring imperfection has given it longevity, superiority, and attractiveness beyond its design.

But is it a wonder or is it the only attraction in the world that I have never visited but have already seen- every morning when I look in the mirror.  Sure, even though I am naively shocked to find that it is not still standing against all odds, I still want to visit it, to take a cheesy picture of me fake holding it up as it towers over me.  Who wouldn’t?  But now that I know, the wonder does not remain.  There’s no gravity defying tower, only a work of restoration.  One restoration after another.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la la…”
“Hey sweetie, unfortunately the dog ate your favorite toy”…
“Ok mom… ‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la la la la la…“
“And honey, because he ate your toy, Rover got sick and died”…
“That’s too bad mom… Don we now our gay apparel, fa la la la la la la la laaaaa….“
No tears or nothin’!  It’s a Christmas miracle!

But seriously, our dog didn’t die (this year so far), so I’m off and wondering again which ghost of Christmas past stole my Christmas cheer.

It happens every year around this time, the stress of finals looming, the mess of rearranging the whole house to accommodate my husband’s Christmas spirit, the budget issues surrounding an extra paycheck spent on gifts for my expansive and generous family.  I’m always a bit gloomy when I return home after leaving the warm Thanksgiving table and the cold dry snow up north.  Then out comes the two green bins of Santa’s vomit.  Predictably the mantel is decorated first, then the tree, then the assorted shiny silver, red and green leftovers scattered to all corners of the house.  The Christmas music in the background, some old and cherished, some with a teen dance beet and some oddly irrelevant and out of place word changes.  The egg nog.  A fire.  Pa in his kerchief and I in my computer chair wishing I could get up the Christmas spirit to help decorate.

This year it’s the Advent wreath that reminds me to dread the holiday that is coming.  Last year we didn’t light our advent candles.  I didn’t do much of anything Christmassy around here actually, cause last year I was reaching the heights of an illness around that time that landed me in the ER the day after Christmas… crash cart, epinephrine hangover, scared to go to sleep that night for fear I wouldn’t wake up.  Last year it was the extra stocking that reminded me: the matching set to my sons’, purchased in anticipation of our expected new addition, a baby that never made it to Christmas the year before, another holiday visit to the ER.  Going back further: job loss, marriage struggles, sickness, songs that remind me of a family home from years ago, burned to the ground and covered with new land on which others now build their lives.  All wrapped up with a Christmas bow, a yearly unpredictable disaster waiting to happen.  ‘Tis the season.

So… it is indeed a Christmas miracle that I await.

I realize that there are many people in my shoes, hoping only for peace this Christmas, and also many for whom Christmas has only ever delivered joy, and those somewhere in between.  For some this will be their first Christmas without a loved one, for others their first with a new love, a spouse, a visiting friend, a baby’s first holiday.  For many it will be just another splendid 25 days of lights, food, and laughter.  For most of us it will be a barrage of holiday exchanges, bogus sales, and unruly grocery store traffic.  For all of us students if will be a sigh of relief after two weeks of studying and stressing over semester grades.

I also realize that I once again have no idea what this Christmas will bring to me.  So here’s my plan: tomorrow I sulk.  I bury my head in the homework that I put off in order to enjoy my Thanksgiving break, and I feel sorry for myself, relating all of my woes irrationally to the coming of Christmas.  Then the next day I shop.  Take my eager little boy full of ridiculous gift ideas to Target and buy myself some affordable Christmas cheer.  The day after that I will light my advent candle a few days late, drag out some Christmas reading, and compliment my husband on our exquisitely decorated home.  Then it’s finals with smiles, Union Station with all the Christmas trains, my sisters’ fabulous cooking, movies in the theater, candles on Christmas Eve, and Christmas morning to the soundtrack of STAR 102.

All the while my Christmas wish will be that I will find that place where children go when the Christmas carols begin, having fallen prey to the disaster-erasing cheer, the consequence of a Christmas miracle.

Dad announced his engagement last week.  It’s great news really, he found a wonderful woman who he will be very happy with.  I’m happy for him, really.  I am no longer on the hook for changing his diapers when he’s too old and feeble to take care of himself.  Welcome to the family, Lady!  ;)  He blurted out the news to me in a phone conversation about a birthday present for my nephew; he was too excited to announce it cleverly.  Experiencing your parents in new relationships can be tricky.  I think I handled it quite well.  I showed interest in the details of the proposal, expressed excitement in my voice, and said, “Congratulations,” as deserved.  Then I hung up the phone and cried.  Why?  Why so sad?  It’s that pesky change again, creeping up on me like a my sneaky cat who slips into the bathroom when no one is looking and pees in the bathtub.  Rude, right?

For the past 12 years of my life, my dad has been a great friend and companion.  My parents divorced about that long ago, and he has had his ups and downs, but through it all he has remained loyal to his daughters and given life and limb to see that we are happy.  On my wedding day, he grieved, intense grief brought on by the impending end of something special that was unique to that time in our lives.  In the eight years since then, he has relished his role as a grandfather, built a shire in the north woods where our scattered family can feel at home on our vacations, and made it a monthly commitment to camp out in my guest room for as long as his break from work will allow.  We have grown comfortable in this pattern; we rely on it.  We enjoy ourselves immensely, and he has succeeded in bringing happiness where he resides in our lives.  Along comes Olivia (not his fiancé – her name is Sue. Olivia is my sneaky cat who pees in the tub out of spite.)

Isn’t it strange how comfortable we get in our lifestyle, when we know it is bound to change?  If my fear were in charge of me, I would be the kind of person who moves into their dream home and never unpacks the boxes cause there are stairs, and when I’m old, I’ll have to move again.  Instead, I tend to over-nest, to over personalize.  I tend to project all of my contentment into eternity, thinking life is about accumulating positives.  You add pleasures: a better home, lovely children, a better job, and you discard pains: the crappy apartment with carpet on the bathroom floor, the old job that worked you too much and paid you too little.  Then at the end, you live in a utopia of your own creating, and you die peacefully in your sleep, and pass it down to your unsuspecting children who have to find a way to include the pleasures and discard the pains (usually in the form of bickering, liquidation and a Salvation Army pick up).  Makes total sense.  I think that is what change should be; this sneaky change looks more like compromise to me.  Seems more like to live is to compromise.

I like to think I’m maturing as I get older, and in that spirit, I sucked up my tears and reasoned through my sadness.  I’m not sad because he is moving on, I am sad because I put all my eggs in my current basket.  I feel loss when I picture a Lady at his stove, messing with our traditions, sitting in my spot on his sofa, and managing his financial generosity.  I am losing what I have.  Then I thought about what will be:  I can stay at my 80-year-old grandmother’s house when I visit the Shire instead, it could be the best 10 years of our relationship before she passes.  I won’t have to clean up my dad’s bachelor pad anymore when I visit.  I don’t have to worry that he lost a heroic rumble with a bear in his woods when I don’t hear from him for a week.  I won’t have to worry that his generosity is depleting his retirement, that he isn’t eating well, that he is lonely when he leaves us.  That’s years added to my life right there!  And sure, right now I’m out of positives and the scale is still tipping towards tears, but I know that we will find our way.

Change is not a compromise from perfect now to less than perfect later.  It’s just one less than perfect season shifting to another less than perfect season, which is actually quite a relief.  Everyone knows the grass is always greener on the other side, and mowing today will just make you have to mow tomorrow (or at least that’s what my husband says when mowing day comes along, although now that I think about it, I’m not seeing the sense).  The point is, compromise is healthy and even enjoyable at times.  Hopefully part of growing up also means learning how to extend the seasons that feel the most fulfilling and how to get through and find our way out of the seasons that try us and leave us scarred.

Most of us will probably die in one of the less desirable seasons of our life, maybe very ill, away from our beloved homes, maybe before it seems to be our time, maybe upon exiting the shower before we are properly robed.  But it’s the scars and the best memories that make up our utopia in the end.  If we make it to the rocking chair, orating to our loved ones the stories of our lives, it’s the changes that will define us, not the constancy.  So thank you Lady, for loving my dad, for mixing it up, and for pushing me into another peak or valley.  Hear is me hoping it’s a good one.

Last night I watched the Michael Moore movie, Capitalism: A Love Story, and like any true zealot of political science, I bawled my eyes out for the last 40 minutes.  Seriously, I watched Beaches with fewer tears shed than what came out of me last night.  Now, before I lose my conservative readership, I want to acknowledge that clearly the film was a social activist’s version of the past 40 years of economics in the United States.  But whether or not you agree with the filmmaker, who has made a name for himself exploiting his liberal political agenda, it was also full of news that hadn’t made news, and personal stories of the victims in our capitalist society. 

 Outside of partisanship, I was reminded last night that there is something universal and human about our struggle, my struggle.  The real story of capitalism in our country is something that we have all lived through, and bought into on some level, and we have all experienced consequences of  it in our own lives or through the lives of others.  Whether or not we share ideas about the solution, the problem is something that we have in common.

It’s hard to describe why it moved me the way that it did; the tears really began to flow around Obama’s election.  As the story goes, after more than 30 years of deregulation, power grabs, and fraudulent contracts leaving the middle class severely crippled, there comes a realigning election.  An election where struggling people felt they had a say in the direction of their lives.  Where desperation and disdain for what had been gave a minority leader a fighting chance to open the segregated door to the highest public office in our country.  It electrified the lower and middle class, brought them to the polls, and in its victory gave them the heroic climax that they needed so badly in a time of widespread economic and emotional recession.  It was a monumental step forward for the civil rights movement, and a flag of hope for large portions of our paralyzed society.  It was a historic day, a country witnessing something fresh and new, a breakthrough and promise of new direction. 

Having experienced that moment barely two years ago, it moved me to think on it again.  It reminded me of the pride I had felt for my country that should not be forgotten as the face of victory on the front page is replaced by policy and political issues, compromise, bickering, and criticism.  It broadened my personal view of the current administration and past ones, and I was relieved of my position as recipient and, at the time, even victim.  Indeed it was the pendulum swinging back, in an effort to arrive not at the middle, but to a place where Americans say they have always striven towards: life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

So now I got to thinking that I don’t want to be motivated by desperation any more. I don’t want to find myself the casualty of progress and someone else’s excess.  It’s not about political sides or what ism we are; it’s about the human struggle, for happiness, for security, and to feel like we are prosperous to some account.  Our nation has spent decades defining prosperity as something that is out of reach for 90% of Americans.  Kids graduate college expecting to move directly into their parents’ lives, ones that were, more often than not, built on the capitalistic principles that have turned communities into individuals.  We’ve bought into, financed, and defended with bleeding knuckles, a system that has removed our human obligation to govern in a way that allows us to meet our most basic needs: healthy food, safe homes, and health care.  I have done this.  I have given up my right to health care for a larger home.  I have given my money to the one with the most collection stations, and overlooked the community in which I live and the quality which I would claim to support.  I signed the faulty mortgage, used the high interest credit cards, and ate chickens that were too fat to walk.  Most of us did.  Most of us do.

When the film was over, just as it was with Food Inc. or Supersize Me, I’m left with a giant “should” on my plate.  My house starts to feel too big, by fridge an abomination, and my budget selfish and corrupt.  But even with my personal guilt weighing heavy on my typical American shoulders, I don’t resent the government, the food industry, or the isms that play tug of war on the political hour broadcast.   I don’t resent the time and place where I live; I’m grateful for my opportunity to witness history.  I’m grateful for my vote, for my choices, for my options.  I’m grateful for the heavyweight fighters in the political ring, who have such shockingly contrasting solutions to America’s problems.   I’m not in that ring, but mostly what these extreme documentaries remind me of, is that I’m stronger in my own ring than I think.  My choices matter, what I buy, what I buy it with, it matters.  The fact that my house is no longer in foreclosure matters.  Even my tears and my zealous compassion matters.  I’m a changing statistic, a policy maker in my own grocery store, and an educator with influence.  That is what matters.

I found the time to dig through my old music CDs.   As it turns out, if you can live through the heat and humidity in Kansas City, summer is good for something.  I am now an avid iTunes user, so it’s rare that I make it through my evolving mixes of new music, back to the soundtracks of my youth.  Once there, I found it amazing the breadth of overwhelmingly beautiful and suffocating-ly melancholy songs that carried me through, that stole my heart and earned my adoration, that spoke the language of my soul; Jeff Buckley, Indigo Girls, Storyhill, Bjork, Simon and Garfunkel, and on and on.  I listened eagerly to some of my favorites.  One brings me back to a train car racing through the French country side, another to the dented top of a beat up Buick under a blanket of stars, and so many find me lying on my back on my bedroom floor with the scent of incense and the flickering of candle light in the darkness.  If I close my eyes I can still feel my back and head on the carpet and the cool, dry, MN winter air creeping through my open window.  How nauseously nostalgic it all is.

And slow.  I swear several of the songs took a good 30 seconds just to start the first verse.  Who (other than a 14-year-old wistful young girl) has time to wait 30 seconds to hear the first verse?  It came as a major shocker to me that my taste in music has become so much less about quality and so much more about how much time I’m willing to wait to hear something catchy or sing along.  I’ve no patience left for the symphony of it all.  I have fully embraced the iTunes format, which sells a song in 30 seconds, and steals away the opportunity to fall in love with the slower developing and less popular tracks on an album.  That is, until now.  Now it’s on my list.

You know, the internal list of all the things that a new season, be it a semester, or a year, or just a feeling, holds.   What’s yours in the here-and-now?  Does it have you speeding up, or slowing down, or marching on?  Does it have a soundtrack?  Is it governed by impatient energetic motivation, or is it begrudgingly slow in coming, but beautiful in its fruition?

For me, “fall” twenty ten began with a heart wrenching funeral, getting stranded on the side of the road twice in my ridiculous 1980s convertible, having to make a new class schedule on the third day of school due to cancellations, and lots of first grade nervous tears from my favorite little boy in the world.  And all the while I’ve had buds of peaceful patience in my ears in the form of long intros and melodic rock operas.   All the while I can feel the swaying of a slower time arriving.

I’m off to do it.

Did you ever notice how many officers of the law you come across on the lonely 55 mph highways in the small towns across the country?  They are everywhere.  They sit and wait for unsuspecting city folks to cruise by going 59.  And they don’t drive regular police cars, black and whites, they drive brown SUV’s labeled “trooper”, and green dodge chargers labeled “patrol”, and orange and green small town pd, I even saw a black corvette that just said “law enforcement.”  Law enforcement, what is that?  I just about pulled over and admitted to sharing my iTunes downloads, and opening the deodorant in the store just to smell it.  Seriously, did no one actually attempt to drive 55 miles per hour before declaring it law?  It’s like crawling down the open road.  The squirrels think it’s funny to see how many times they can cross in front of you before you get close enough for them to stick their tongue out and dart into the shoulder brush.

Then there’s the destination.  For me, it’s a cabin in the woods, with a hammock looking up at a canopy of green leaves, and a quiet lake with a resident loon family.  I go there on my breaks.  It’s a haul, 10 hours of slow motion driving, but it’s worth the trek.  Maybe it’s the drive itself that serves as a sedative – causing a mental slowdown.  Once there, it’s the sound of nothing but blowing trees.  The smell of dirt and sap and cool water wind.  That’s my Shire, at least for now.

For some I suppose the destination is going home, wherever that may be.  To others a resort on a white sand beach with the ocean breeze.  To some it is the sounds of the city out an open night window, or the company of friends and a bottle of wine.

Sometimes I feel like the further away I get from my woods, and the more tricks I try, the less they work.  I’m starting to think maybe my camouflage has me looking like a Toucan in the wild west.  Counterproductive.   An effective and descriptive one word sentence, in my opinion.   Why here?  Why now?

I’ve got it in my mind to try some new things around Kansas City this year, local things that I will miss if I ever blend completely into the background of my Shire; special places that I would want someone to take me if I visited the city.  It’s a short list so far, but I’m open to suggestions.  I’m pretty tired of standing in the middle of a highway in my best gray get-up; I perceive that it’s time for some new tricks.

And so… as summer descends upon us, I am not only looking forward to the weight of studies off my chest, but also to the change of seasons in my city.  A city which I am learning to embrace, though it will never compare in comfort – to my Shire.

Come to find out, there is more than one type of instructor out there in the world of academia.  I say this with the highest regard for most of my instructors, and with full intention of one day in the foggy future completing my degree and becoming a professor myself.  The educators that I would like to dwell on for the moment, are the rare breed who like to see themselves on a different plane of existence from their students.  This is the professor who doesn’t like repeating instructions and requires doctor notes to excuse your absence.  This is the teacher who thinks their jokes about their material are funny and yours are off base, who gives a 10 minute lecture about cell phones at the beginning of the semester, who reads the plagiarism section of the syllabus loudly and slowly, and who angrily throws dry erase markers across the room missing the trash can when they no longer write.

To make a long story shorter and more interesting, I have stepped in my share of pot holes with these instructors.  As an adult student, I sometimes forget to cower when instructors treat me unfairly or disregard my humanity in favor of their own pride.  I tend to speak up, to question, and to respectfully disagree.  This has gotten me grade reductions, threats, and a pathetic episode of leaving the room in tears in front of a captive audience of fellow students.  Further details spared, this is what my most recent experience has left me wishing:

I wish that all instructors would let down their defenses, would listen to their students, and would see the people in their classroom as deserving of respect and admiration.  I wish that all professors would believe the best and not take the worst personally.  I wish I could come as I am and not as they would like me to be, that I could safely question injustice and inaccuracy, and that my life would not have to be checked at the door.  I wish that my hard earned money could buy me the right to look my instructor in the eyes and to make judgment calls in my education.

So… here’s to you Prof. Apology Accepted.  This is my effort to let you have the last word.  Consider this my silent part 7 in our 6 part series.