The transitions flow from one character to the next in a graceful ballet of meaning.

Occasionally, I find myself in an odd spot where the urge to show off for my students squares up with the desire to hector them and results in me doing something that causes them to mutter things like, “well played, jackass.” Today, that something was writing the final section of class notes on the black board in cursive. I worked hard to learn cursive. I worked even harder to develop a deliberate, legible, possibly even stately style of my own.

Of course, like all of us, my life has been overtaken by typing, both nine-key and qwerty, and of late, even voice is getting in on the act, making my skill at cursive even more antiquated and obsolete. But, we don’t go quietly into the night, do we? No, we wait for those darling little shits we call learners to act up just so we can silently berate them by doing something they can’t. Dim the lights, draw a bath, my back hurts.