A reason why teachers stay

It’s not hard to find lengthy and compelling examples of why talented teachers leave the profession. In fact, they’re so ubiquitous that I usually don’t even bother reading them. After all, they’ll simply make me feel bad about staying in a career that demands so much of me personally and professionally, and which gives so little in return.

I keep a “feel good” file in my desk drawer. It is, unfortunately, filed behind my “lunch detentions and referrals” file because, practically speaking, I spend a lot more time managing discipline issues than I do sitting around feeling good about that note a student left me 3 years ago. And come to think of it, I’m not sure I even remember what’s in the “feel good file.” Huh.

Anyway, there are some returns, even if they get filed away and forgotten. One of them is the college recommendation letter. Often when kids approach me with a request for a letter of recommendation, I feel dread and anxiety: how am I going to get this done? But then I spend some time reading over their lists of accomplishments, their biggest life struggles, their greatest strengths, and I am reminded of what tremendous people I get to work with every day. I find myself both excited about their successes and eager to learn about the kinds of people they’ll become.

The hour or two that I spend working on recommendation letters isn’t insignificant. Here’s some interesting math: I currently have 179 students. The amount of time I have in my day which is not teaching is 121 minutes. This leaves me approximately 3 minutes, 38 seconds per kid per week. That’s assuming that I don’t spend any of those 121 minutes lesson planning, or grading, or in meetings. If I were to remove minutes for things like staff meetings, forced PLC meetings, e-mail correspondence, and various other obligations I have in my contract day, I’m certain it’ll go into negative digits. I regularly stay well past my contract hours every day, and that time is spent either working directly with kids or grading and giving feedback on their work.

My work schedule is so frenetic that I have no time outside of our 48 minute class period to get to know my students. This is bad for me and it’s bad for my students. But every year a few of them come back and ask for letters of recommendation, which forces me to sit down, sometimes for a couple of hours, to get to know a kid. The letters are always a pain in the ass, but I rarely say no.

I wrote one letter last month that was particularly wonderful: a boy I taught a few years ago whose success is a matter of pride for me. He was a sophomore in one of the worst classes I’ve had. Over half of them failed because they simply would not do anything. Well, they would play on their phones, have inappropriate conversations, and do their best to derail my lessons for their own entertainment; they actually did a lot of things, but they would not learn. This boy, however, did all of the things. He wrote beautifully, he read Caesar like a champ, and most importantly, he engaged his brain, which is all a teacher ever wants.

When parent-teacher conferences rolled around, I met his parents. This was a quiet boy who always wore jeans, t-shirts, and a surprisingly full beard. I never noticed dirty clothes, a weird smell, or any of the obvious things that point to poverty. But his father was (probably still is) missing several teeth. His clothes were ratty and torn in places. His mother appeared a little cleaner and a little better put-together, but clearly hailed from the rough side of the tracks. To me, this was a picture of poverty. I didn’t know at the time that his father was schizophrenic, and I’m not sure if his mom can work.

Immediately, my appreciation for this kid grew as I became aware of the fact that he was beating the odds. The following year, I encouraged him to take my honors level junior class, and he did. He did very well, and is currently in AP Literature. He requested a letter of recommendation for Lewis and Clark and a few other colleges a few weeks ago, and in writing that letter, I got to know him even better. I had no idea the hurdles this kid overcame. And I’m so thankful he asked me to write that letter. I’m grateful I had the opportunity to encourage him to challenge himself. I’ve met some extraordinary kids in my time, but I can’t say that I’ve ever been more thrilled to see a student succeed than I am of this boy.

This is the reason teachers stay. Or at least, this is why I stay. I keep looking for other work; there are plenty of reasons to leave. But I remain because it’s not just a job. It’s not just making money. I don’t stay because of my summer break or because of the hours and hours and hours I’ve spent on my curricula. Teaching is raising children. Sure, we have standards and tests and best practices and goals and evaluations and all sorts of inane, ridiculous shit to deal with. But inherently, it’s not about any of those things. It’s about using our influence to raise children to be the best they can possibly be. Other than raising my own child, I’ve not yet found a more important career.

For our veterans

As I use my Veterans' day to sit and grade essays, I often check my Facebook.  I find essay grading so dull and tedious, that on days like today, I spend a lot of time daydreaming, cleaning my kitchen, and keeping up on my social media.  As it's Veterans' day, everyone publicly & graciously thanks our military personnel for their tremendous sacrifice.  May we never forget.  Here's an old picture of my dad in his uniform.  And on and on.  And mostly I imagine people are expressing genuine sentiment.

But however genuine the sentiment, it seems utterly a waste of time.  Sure, we all read public thanks and feel better because of our gratitude.  But what good is it?

NPR ran a story Friday stating that, "The Veterans Administration estimates 22 veterans kill themselves each day."   That's 660 lives each month, and a whopping 8,030 veteran suicides per year.  The article points to a few reasons for this horrifying suicide rate: PTSD, a military culture which "sees help-seeking as a weakness instead of something that's a strength," & lousy care by the Veterans Administration.


There are some things I understand.  Suicide is often unpredictable; often it's an impulse rather than a well-considered action.  Additionally, as the article points out, PTSD is challenging to treat, and even with treatment, suicides still happen.  But still, 22 suicides per day?  Seems to me like the VA could do a better job.  Seems to me like what is often touted as the greatest military in the world could do a better job of caring for the lives which make it great.


I'm taking a moment to write today because feeling gratitude for our veterans isn't enough.  A Facebook thanks is a paltry substitute for any meaningful action. We live in a democracy which only functions if we get involved and actually do something.  For those of us who are thoughtful, relatively well-informed, concerned citizens, it's not enough to continue to read & be well-informed and then vote accordingly.  It's time to put our gratitude to work & start advocating for our veterans.  Write to our senators and members of congress.  I did - I've no idea if it'll make any difference, but it seems like a better idea than simply saying thank you on social media.  Take some legitimate action.  Show your appreciation by advocating for our veterans.  Walk your talk, people.

Annnd, the parents.

I may have dropped an "F-bomb' within hearing distance of a student today.  That would be somewhat distressing on a normal day, but not today.

Context matters.  See, I got an e-mail from a parent which was offensive.  The message was simply a request for me to make my literature class more exciting (in the same way that mom does at home) so that the student could find it within himself to do his work.  See, this boy is just so smart, and so he gets bored a lot.  Clearly, according to this parent, this student's failing grade is a direct result of a dull, lifeless curricula & a terrible teacher.  

My initial response was inappropriate and unprofessional, though probably the clearest expression of my thoughts.  Then the next response was still inappropriate, then the next, then the next.  It took me a while to respond.  See, I really do have a thick skin, but there are some things that piss me off - like parents who not only accept the ridiculous "this class is boring" excuse for failure, but also then reinforce the excuse by blaming the teacher.  As far as I'm concerned, this is shitty parenting.  

One colleague - the one I was talking with when I cursed a little too loud - suggested I simply ask the parent for suggestions on how to make my class more exciting, as clearly the parent is an expert.  I considered this mocking tone, but then I pictured myself across the table from both the parent and my administrator & decided I didn't want to try and explain that one.  Another teacher suggested I reply with two words: home schooling.  I'll go ahead and admit that those weren't the first two words that came to mind after I read that e-mail.  

I decided to try a line drive.  I went ahead and pointed out that the failing grade is due to a lack of work.  I acknowledged the student's boredom - I imagine school would be pretty boring if you never did any of the work.  And I left the parent with suggestions for improvement:  1) your son should do the work, and 2) he really needs to do some work.  I imagined reading the message aloud with my administrator and the parent, and decided it was a reasonable response.  

My intention in relaying this gem of an anecdote is not only to bitch about my day, as that is part of it, but also to illustrate a pervasive problem.  There are some students who are so used to the blinky-flashy things they see when they sit in front of a screen, that they can't concentrate on anything that's not blinking, flashing, or exploding.  If it takes longer than 5 or 6 seconds to understand, it's either too hard or boring.  I teach a remedial reading class.  My only objective with the class is to teach students how to pass the state reading test.  It takes me a solid 5 minutes at the start of each class just to get their attention.  They are soooooo distracted.  Talking, texting, standing up, adjusting their pants, sharpening their pencils, staring at the desks.  

I'm not exaggerating about the 5 or 6 second part, either.  I pulled one student aside the other day because I'm convinced she keeps failing the reading test because she's so distracted all of the time that she constantly does her work improperly.  Smart kid, but she won't even listen to the end of a sentence - it really only takes 3 or 4 words for her to lose interest.  Some of that is probably self-absorption, but the rest I attribute to never being forced to focus on a single task for an extended (I'm talking 15 minutes or so) period of time.  

So when kids use the term "boring," I interpret that as distracted.  This distraction is an overwhelming & detrimental problem for everyone, but especially teens who are hormonal and half-crazed anyway.  If only parents would shut the damned screens off & ask their kids to read.  

Pickles & Immaturity

A few days ago, I went to a social event for a writing program I did a few years back.  I almost never attend social events, as teaching has made me into a bit of a misanthrope.  I can't stand small talk, and what is a social event if not an opportunity for casual acquaintances to get together and converse about trifles?  I went for two reasons only: one of my good friends was also going, and there was free wine. 

Of course, as it was a social event, they didn't serve food right away.  They gave us a half hour to mingle.   At least there was wine, even if it wasn't good wine.  We did get cornered by a woman who I knew a little bit from this writing program and who seemed so excited to see us.  It was terrible, as I not only remembered her from the writing camp, I also remembered why I had disliked her so much, so whilst we were discussing the pros & cons of our commute, I kept spacing off and remembering all of those things which had bothered me so much.  This made the conversation even more tedius.  Then there was hairy-lip lady, who I mostly remembered as a fabulous writer.  I had forgotten that she actually allows her upper lip hair to grow uninhibited, and it grows over her upper lip and into her mouth a little bit.  I have no idea what we even talked about because all I did was stare at her lip hair.  I wonder if other adults can get past these things?

Finally, once we got seated at a table in the corner, I could spend some time with my friend and my wine, and forget about hairy-lip lady who still grosses me out.  I was relieved to be able to just chat with my friend.  I had been waiting all day to tell somebody about my problem with pickles.  See, I can't think of pickles without immediately associating them with penises.  Penises are gross, so, as far as I'm concerned, pickles are also gross.  Especially when you live in my head and combine the two and imagine vinegary penises.  So.  There's this deli down the street from the mall called the "Spicy Pickle."  Every time my husband and I drive by, I feel compelled to say that there's a clinic for that.  

So one of my sweet darlings showed me a pretty hilarious cartoon she had drawn for her economics class featuring a smiling pickle wearing a track suit and doing all sorts of silly things.  This I found hysterically funny, but only because I imagined a smiling penis wearing a track suit, and that was downright hilarious.  It ended up being one of those weird laugh cycles, where I realized I was laughing a little too long, and then I got embarrassed and self-conscious, but that only made me laugh harder.  And the student was kind-of looking at me wondering if I was okay, or if I was maybe making fun of her because it wasn't intended to be hysterically funny.  So I played it off & said something like, "That's really cute - nothing like a sassy pickle first thing in the morning!  Ha Ha Ha."

I had spent the whole day wishing I could share my immaturity & my penis-pickle problem, so it was the first thing I brought up at the table.  Of course.  And as it turns out, my friend has this theory that the longer we teach, the less mature and intelligent we become.  It's like we impose our brilliance and maturity on them every day, and each day we get less and less back.  By the time we retire, we're gonna be 4th graders.  I agreed, and then we went on to talk about serious things over free mac-n-cheese.  

Two days later, an entirely different student came to show me a children's book her sister had illustrated.  It was beautifully done; her sister had spent something like 4 months working on it.  It was all about a grumpy pickle who had "pickle-itis," a series of bumps all over his body.  It's like they're testing me.  This time, I held my tongue and didn't make ANY of the comments I was thinking, though I found myself laughing out loud at my witty remarks after she had left for the day.  

Not a 4th grader just yet.  

Teaching through the fog.

Yesterday, I was so exhausted, especially first thing in the morning, that it took me three tries to spell "transition" properly.

Days like these I'm jealous of other professions where it's a little easier to muddle through; most other professionals don't have a 35 person audience watching as they bumble through the spelling of big words & have complete brain farts.  I might be unique in my exceptional brain-farting abilities; when I get really tired, I lose my train of thought mid-sentence.  There was a lot of that yesterday.  

Why so tired? I had a sick kitty.  Without getting into the details, she had been deteriorating for a while. I was sure on Thursday when my husband took her to the vet that they'd put her down.  She was obviously, actively dying.  But the vet said 'you never know...,' so instead they drew blood, gave her some IV fluids, and sent her home.  So that night, we watched and worried.  She didn't eat, she didn't drink, and she never settled.  Friday afternoon she was gone.  

My husband had Mischief for nearly 20 years, so she has been a part of our family as long as we've been a family.  It's not so much her passing as much as it was the watching and worrying  that took a toll.  She was old and rickety and arthritic; I think we were all astonished at how long she held on.  

And it wasn't so much managing my own feelings of loss that hurt, it was trying to explain it to my 3 (almost 4!) year old.  She loved Mischief, too.  So as we were walking to Starbucks this morning, I likened the passing of our kitty to the falling of the leaves.  I tried to make her understand that everything dies.  That every season the leaves fall; each of them dies, but when spring comes around, the tree makes more.  She seems to be making sense of it.

But the leaves got me thinking.  The beauty that we see in the fall leaves - I wonder why we revel in it so much.  Really, what gives them their beauty is the process of dying.  I watched Mischief through this process of dying, and there was no reverie.  It wasn't beautiful, but then, I suspected she had pain.  Perhaps we can be free to celebrate the death of those leaves because pain and suffering isn't part of the equation.  We feel comfortable celebrating, photographing, and enjoying because we don't perceive the tree to be suffering.

I know that we appreciate the colors of fall mostly based on the aesthetic appeal.  But also, even if we never really ponder it (I mean, only me and a few other miserable philosopher-types ever do), I think on some level we see in those gorgeous reds & yellows, reminders of summer: plants bursting forth fruit, flowers blooming & reaching for the sun, bees buzzing.  And the reminder that winter is coming.  And it is for all of us, really.

I was honest with my daughter about Mischief's death.  I want her to understand death as a part of life.  Sure, it's tough.  Sure, we never want to see loved ones pass, but we have to recognize it as an inevitability.  I just had a student of mine, and honors student, come to me in tears, devastated because her grandmother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  She wanted to drop my class & take a much easier class because she just didn't think she could handle the rigors of honors with the emotional strain she would have with her grandmother's impending death.   I told her no.

I don't doubt that she was genuinely hurting.  I don't doubt that this kid probably will have a hard time getting her work done.  What I doubt is the wisdom in allowing death to overwhelm & destroy her entire year.  I'm certain that, like the changing leaves, her grandmother's body has been displaying the colors of death for some time.  All of us, to a certain extent, we fight the colors, we ignore the colors, we hide them.  We're obsessed with staying in the spring and summer of our lives, and I feel like that obsession makes fall and winter so much harder.

If we could just give ourselves permission to celebrate the passing, even through our pain.  I'm not saying it'll be less painful; I doubt much of anything could make it easier.  But the perspective matters.

We all struggle with loss.  Even with quite a bit of experience with death, I still had a hard time teaching last week with the loss of our little furry companion.  But I'm working on perspective, and next week will be better. 

Feeling Grumpy

By this time in my career, I've learned to expect some things: that I'll feel a certain level of depression at the end of summer when I begin to anticipate the onslaught of work & stress, that some kids are always going to try and turn in 18 week's worth of work the day before semester ends, that the most ill-behaved kids in class always have the strongest immune systems, etcetera, etcetera.

But I never get used to the 6-week grading frenzy.  It begins at 4 weeks.  Suddenly, I look at my calendar and realize I've only got 2 weeks, give or take a furlough, to get my units done.  And then I look at my grading piles and realize I've got 2 weeks to get that shit taken care of.  Then suddenly I find myself scheduled for meetings after school 3 or 4 days each week.  And every kid suddenly has work they need to talk to me about.  That kid who has been out for 3 weeks needs all his work.  

It's about this time that I become a total bitch.  I can't help it; no amount of self talk and reassuance will alleviate the ticking time bomb.  I can tell myself it's just 'cause progress reports are due.  I can plan on grading all weekend.  I can drink lots of wine.  Some things help a little.  

No matter how hard I try to compartmentalize, I'm still furious at all of the things.  The clock in my room has been broken for two weeks.  I need a clock, so I bought one.  I'm pissed about having to buy something as simple as a clock for my classroom.  And so I avoid eye contact with the janitor who has known about my broken clock for weeks because it's inappropriate to sneer.  Besides, it probably isn't even his fault.  

There's a flagger lady on the street near the elementary school that I drive past every day.  She's very enthusiastic about making sure people slow down for the children.  Totally legit: it's a good thing to do,  keeping kids alive.  However, I've NEVER actually seen children anywhere near her intersection.  Wait.  I did leave work early a few weeks back, and a couple of kids needed to cross the road.  But almost always, by the time I leave work, all the kids are at home, have had dinner and a bath, and are ready for bed.  But still the flagger lady stands at the intersection waving that goddamned flag at all the cars like there's kids swarming everywhere.  Sometimes I wonder if she's mildly retarted.  But no, she's just the agressive flag-waving lady who stands on the corner wildly waving her flag for no good reason.  I hate her.  

It's also during the 6 week grading period that my husband suddenly stops using plates.  So when I sit down at the table and put my hands down, I realize I have crumbs up to my elbows.  There is no fury like a crumby forearm.  

Then there's the inevitable frustration at shitty grades. Half of my classes are honors groups, so I don't usually become frustrated at their performance.  But I do have 2 sections of remedial reading.  These are groups of kids who, for one reason or another, have really low scores on their reading tests.  Very few of them have learning disorders, so most of them are there because of behavior.  Many of them just don't or can't pay attention long enough to learn what they need to learn.  So grading time is always stressful because I have kids who really should be passing and doing fine, failing because of stupid  things like not turning work in, or not paying attention to directions.  

And finally, there's the post-grading period headache, which hopefully doesn't set in until the essays are graded.  This happens the following week wherein the combination of overwhelming stress, an impossible workload, sleepless nights, my stupid body, and no end in sight causees migraines.  The only relief is rest, but of course, I have planning to do.  

Our Connections

The following is an essay I wrote on climate change in the hopes that I'd get published in ISLE magazine.  It's a scholarly magazine which asked for submissions with regards to climate change.  

​Humans.  We are not solitary creatures.  We need to create and maintain connections with other people.   I’m a high school English teacher, and every day, when I sit down to plan my classes, it’s with the underlying assumption that a pretty large chunk of the kids who come to school each day come to hang out with friends.  They don’t show up to learn about the connotation and denotation of a particular word, or to discuss how an author sets a tone with the choice of one word over another.  They come to socialize.  For them, and for most people, nothing is more important than our personal relationships.  It’s natural, it’s normal, and it’s powerful.  I don’t think I have to work too hard to prove that we, as humans, need & crave personal connections; it’s a no-brainer for most of us.  Where I feel like I have to work harder is when I argue that a connection with nature is just as vital, even though it, too, should be a no-brainer.  

​But we are disconnected on such a profound level from nature that many don’tunderstand just how destructive and horrifying our existence on this planet is.  As an example, last spring I bought a little basil plant to put out in my teeny-tiny little garden area.  Actually, it’s not really a garden area at all: I live in a tiny condo, and there’s a section of unplanted, unused dirt in the common area by my front door, so I decided to hijack that space and plant some basil, a chili pepper, and a cherry tomato plant.  My little girl will be 4 in February, and I feel an obligation as a parent to make sure she understands where her food comes from.  So we planted our little garden, and a few days later, a slug came along and ate all of the basil.  Gabby and I were beside ourselves. The following day, I went to school and reported the destruction of my basil plant to my 7th period class.  But before I was able to relay the fabulous beer-in-a-cup solution that I found to my students (there was a witty ‘slugs are drunks’ punch line), one of my little darlings interrupted me with this gem as he rolled his eyes at me:  “Geez, Harris, what are you doing?  Just go BUY some basil and be done with it.  There are these things called grocery stores…”  

​I wanted to explain that food doesn’t just magically appear at a grocery store.  I wanted to illustrate that when an apple says “product of New Zealand,” that means it was grown & harvested in another country that’s really far away from Salem.  No Oregonian should be eating New Zealand apples!  I wanted to demonstrate how repulsive our meat industry is by walking him past a feed lot where cattle stand ankle deep in their own shit while getting fattened up for butcher so that we can buy cheap meat wrapped in cellophane in our grocery stores.  I wanted to proclaim that the “convenience” of the grocery store is a farce; it’s nothing but a very carefully constructed tableau standing on the backs of indebted farmers, migrant workers, and mother nature.  But all I could do was stand, take a deep breath, and blink those thoughts away.  There were several kids in the group who agreed with this boy, and we needed to discuss our literature.  We had already burned 5 or 6 minutes of class time, and we still needed to spend some time analyzing metaphors in “Fahrenheit 451,” a text I am certain this kid didn’t bother to read.  

​While I have some frustration at this kid who wouldn’t do his assigned reading, I still recall that conversation from six months ago because it was shocking to me to see a person so disconnected from the natural process of living that he couldn’t fathom why anyone would bother to grow their own basil.  I could have made a dozen arguments in favor of urban gardening, but none of them would have mattered.   He’d simply roll his eyes at my hippy-dippy notions and go about his day.  Sure, this kid needs lots more education, but I feel he’s an example of a significant problem: the millions of Americans who think exactly like he does – people who are happy to buy into the farce because it’s easy, convenient, and cheap.  

​There are as many explanations for ignorance as there are ignorant people.  But one explanation I find particularly destructive is our lack of connection with our environment.  The food example is one, but I could just as easily come up with handfuls of examples of people who don’t go outside.  People who have never climbed to the top of a mountain; who’ve never had a surprise encounter with a bobcat; who’ve never gazed up at a perfect blue sky from the canyon of a river and thought, “there’s no place I’d rather be, no possible way I could be happier, than right here, right now.”  Having never experienced such things, how could anyone feel a love for the natural world?  They’ll never understand why I get angry every time I eat a grocery store tomato because they’ve never tried a fresh one.  Without a connection to nature, there seems to be little problem with our lifestyles, and little need for urgent action.  

​I’ve taught American Literature for 6 years now, and I love it all!  I do – from Bradstreet to Poe, Longfellow to Twain, Steinbeck to Hemingway, I love teaching them.  I also love nature.  After some time, I realized that a careful reading of important works of American Literature is also a careful reading of our relationship with nature.  Melville portrayed nature as malevolent, mysterious, and spiritual in Moby Dick. Twain showed us how society corrupts and nature heals in Huck Finn.  Steinbeck likens human experience to that of animals in almost everything he wrote: Of Mice and Men, anyone?  Hemingway breaks our hearts when he sends the sharks to eatSantiago’s fish.  We love these works because they speak to us; they convey universal truths.  One of the most important truths is our dependence on and our connection to our natural world.  Nature is a part of who we are, and great literature reveals that.   Even among the greats, one author stands out every single year: Ralph Waldo Emerson.  My kids love him; they want to ignore every other author for the rest of the year so that they can read more Emerson.  Why?  Because he celebrates the individual; because he advocates for divinity within and among us; because he recognizes the power and beauty of the human spirit, which is connected, intrinsically, to nature.  He articulates better than any other American writer, our necessary connection to nature.  

Like Emerson, it seems to be necessary, for the thoughtful among us, anyway, to seek the solitude and guidance of nature.  There’s something about the connection with nature and the wild that heals and makes clear the important things in life.  As Emerson puts it in his Natureessay:

In the woods, we return to reason and faith.  There I feel that nothing can befall me in life—no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.  Standing on the bare ground…I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or parcel of God. (268)

Emerson writes that we experience the divine in our communion with nature.  That somehow through this connection, we become better able to see past ourselves and our selfish considerations to the greater things in life.  From Emerson’s standpoint, the destruction of our environment is nothing less than sacrilege.  When we destroy our connection with nature, we destroy our connection to the Sacred; we destroy our ability to connect with one another.  And what do we get at such a cost?  

​Very few of our personal relationships are effortless; we have to work to maintain our relationships with the people we value in life.  In order to maintain a connection, we have to do things like pick up the phone, make time for a lunch date, send a birthday card.  Not super difficult things, but maintaining the connections we value requires that we participate in the relationship.  In the same way, we have to participate in our relationship with nature.  We have to be aware of our presence in nature; we have a responsibility to understand how our lives and habits have an effect on our environment.  With that understanding comes the responsibility to change our actions.  If not for the love of nature, than at least as a means of self-preservation, we must re-evaluate and repair our relationship with nature.  We, as a community and a country, have to acknowledge that our daily lives are responsible for the destruction of our environment, and it’s our duty, our responsibility, to act accordingly.  We have to stop living as if there’s always going to be basil at the grocery store; otherwise, one day it’s simply going to be gone.