It’s a quiet week-end here at the homestead. I’m surrounded by piles of student portfolios and slowly working my way through them. It’s been a bit of a battle against procrastination (laundry, bathroom cleaning, drawer-arranging), butwhen I finally sit down and read, I love it. One of my students is writing about her all girls school in East Harlem, one is writing about the mindset of a baseball pitcher, and another writes about her fascination with body piercings.
The only odd moment was when a student mentioned that she was fourteen on the 10th anniversary of Kurt Cobain. Which means…wait for it…that she was four when he died. Four years old. I was alone on the balcony of a cheap pensione in Barcelona contemplating dinner when I heard the news. It’s not that I was a huge Nirvana fan, it’s that I knew it was the end of something. And now, for the students in my class, it’s the stuff of legend and myth. So it goes.