It’s My Birthday — So, Here’s a Special Post

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I feel like I have good people I love and know scattered across this crazy world. I’m scattered. So it works. Today is my birthday. It’s always an in-between day, but I’ve learned to stop worrying and love the bomb — I mean — the day!

The People Who Take You There

I think people carry with them certain memories—especially from early childhood into adolescence—that surface later in adult life, unbidden and strangely intact. Not the big moments. Not the milestones. But the people who were simply there.

I definitely had a coloring book
like this when I was a kid in the 80s!

One of those memories for me is getting on the school bus in LaPlace, Louisiana. I must have been in third, fourth, or fifth grade. LaPlace was—and still is—a small hamlet pressed up against the Mississippi River, defined less by buildings than by the levee system that holds the water at bay. The Bonnet Carré Spillway, that vast and mostly invisible protector, loomed in the background of daily life. Flooding was always a possibility. Order was something you trusted other people to maintain.

Every morning and afternoon, I got on the bus driven by a man named Mr. Barry.

That is the memory.

Mr. Barry was a quiet man, probably in his forties—or at least that’s how I remember him. He was dark brown, with a face worn gently by time, gray-black hair thinning at the crown. He didn’t say much. I don’t remember conversations. I don’t remember jokes or discipline or instruction. What I remember is his presence.

On cold days, I can see him sitting in the driver’s seat before we boarded, eating out of a lunch container—not a tin exactly, but a proper lunch box. Inside was red beans and rice. In Louisiana, that meal is more than food; it’s ritual, warmth, care. I somehow knew his wife—or someone who loved him—had made it. He ate it slowly, with relish, like it mattered.

I don’t even know when he ate it. Maybe between routes. Maybe in the afternoon before the ride home. Memory doesn’t care much for logistics. It keeps what it wants.

Mr. Barry wore jeans, usually a collared shirt with a T-shirt underneath—sometimes red-and-black checked. Once the bus got moving, he’d turn on the radio. Rock and roll, whatever was on FM at the time. Occasionally, in the mornings, the news. There were only so many stations then. The world arrived filtered and faint.

Here’s the strange part: I don’t remember how he drove. I don’t remember a single thing about his skill behind the wheel. I don’t remember rules or reprimands or even the sound of his voice. But I remember him. His face. His name. The constancy of seeing him every day.

He probably didn’t know my name.

And yet, decades later, I carry him.

In high school, I had another bus driver: Mr. Greg. He was different—more talkative, lanky, tall, with a mustache and an easy smile. He played country music. He was also a police officer in Madisonville, Louisiana, where I lived at the time. I knew more about him. I saw him occasionally outside the bus, sometimes in his patrol car. He had a brother who also drove a bus, though I can’t remember his name.

Mr. Greg had rules—bus drivers always do. Sit down. Don’t move. Don’t test the limits of a vehicle that is both transportation and controlled chaos. Bus driving is hard. You’re responsible for dozens of children while piloting something the size of a small building. You’re caretaker and authority and witness, all at once.

I don’t know where either of these men are now. Mr. Barry could be in his sixties, his nineties, or gone altogether. Mr. Greg is probably in his fifties or sixties. Time gets slippery when you start measuring it against your own life. I’m now roughly the age I once imagined Mr. Barry to be. Or maybe older. Or maybe not.

And that’s the point.

We spend so much time worrying about what will matter—what we’ll be remembered for, what impact we’re making, whether our actions register. But memory doesn’t work that way. People remember presence. Consistency. Care. The way someone showed up, quietly, day after day.

Mr. Barry and Mr. Greg probably have no idea they live in my mind. They weren’t teachers. They weren’t family. They weren’t friends. They were simply the men who took me from home to school and back again, safely, repeatedly, without drama.

And yet they carry a kind of solace for me now—a reminder of a time when I had less agency, less freedom, and other people quite literally carried me where I needed to go.

I know for certain I could never be a bus driver. That job requires patience, endurance, and a tolerance for chaos I do not possess.

So this is a quiet thank-you—to Mr. Barry, to Mr. Greg, and to all the people whose labor is invisible but essential. To the ones who never make speeches but leave an imprint anyway.

You never really know who will remember you.

And maybe that’s the grace of it.

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Teaching on the Edge of “Goodbye, Mr. Chips”

I used to think teaching looked like a scene out of the novel-made-classic movie — the musical version I like is Goodbye, Mr. Chips, with Peter O’Toole in the title role. Mr. Chips is dapper. He nibbles biscuits, dispenses quiet wisdom through action, and his students adore him. That was my gestalt of teaching, a script I absorbed in childhood. I idolized my teachers — middle school, high school, even college — as if they could make order out of chaos (or show me the pattern inside the chaos, which is sometimes even better).

I became a teacher at twenty-eight, after a decade in the arms of Mother Church — first a seminarian, then a religious brother. I left that life for a parallel calling. And I’m still here, now in my forties, a little more tired, a little more rushed. The backstage parts of the job take up a lot of oxygen — grading, uploading this file and that one, posting grades, reading emails, responding to some of them. It’s office work except teaching isn’t an office job — it’s a command performance. The show thrills me; it also wrings me out.

This morning I cried in the shower. It was cold. My commute from Queens to my school in Washington Heights is about an hour and a half. I don’t love that part. I check my email and skim the news on my phone, but mostly it feels like time I can’t get back.

I started this year with gusto. Classic me — the Energizer Bunny. I’m either all-systems-go or in a deep morass of my own patheticness. People tend to like me when I’m bouncy and ready to wrangle sixth- and seventh-graders — the tribe I travel with these days. Teaching happens in the moment, but it demands a plan — lesson arcs, pacing calendars, data cycles. And yet my favorite moments are the improvised ones: a student’s random share, a series of unfortunate (and comic) events, that flash when a question sparks real curiosity. That’s the stuff that keeps me in it — kids doing, being, thinking, and seeing.

It’s my first time teaching in a public school after years in private — tuition-free places and tuition-paid ones. I got my certification after I’d already been in classrooms for a while. The shift to the public sphere is a whole story on its own. What I can say is: my students talk. They interrupt. They test boundaries. We’re nearing Christmas, and the behaviors have a pulse. That tracks. I should feel blessed — three more weeks and then hibernation. But I feel anxious.

Part of it is last year, which was a disaster. Let’s leave it there. Part of it is now: I’m learning two curricula, juggling four classes, and directing drama club (we meet once a week, which should be manageable, right?). I have a parent advocating hard for her seventh-grade son to get into a private school for eighth — which I respect — while I try to keep everyone learning today. I’m teaching everything new, following a set curriculum that still requires a million tweaks to fit the real humans in front of me. It drives me a little mad.

So I write. My therapist says writing is therapy; this is that. I’m not a naturally organized person. I survive on intuition. Sometimes I collapse under the pressure. I took a sick day today — I needed to breathe — and now I’m second-guessing the choice. My armor plate has shifted. I don’t feel as confident as I “should.” I’m not kind to myself; I can be brutal. When I stumble, the echo chamber inside me amplifies the mistake.

I’m not a perfectionist — far from it. I’m the teacher typing the slide deck minutes before students walk in. But like Mr. Chips, I believe in the humanity of this work. I’m teaching actual human beings — kids with desires and wishes, different from mine, but real. In the story, Mr. Chips falls in love. I always thought Goodbye, Mr. Chips felt a little queer-coded. There are plenty of us — gay men who found a home in the profession. When people ask (and they ask a lot), I sometimes joke that I’m saving myself for Mr. Right. I’ll even make up a beau — Marc Antony — no relation to the historical figure. He’s also been A.G. Millington or Uncle Faroger. It’s a little neurodivergent of me, maybe, to chat with my alter egos. It’s only a problem if they talk back, right?

My salve is Friday after school. New York City does something to me on Fridays — a little joie de vivre. I’ll walk along 37th Avenue in Queens, duck into a bodega, or browse a 99-cent store. I’ll treat myself to a café au lait (no sugar!) and remember that joy still sneaks in, even when I’m running on fumes.

Here’s what I know from my own mistakes: teaching isn’t osmosis. Papers don’t grade themselves. Lessons don’t float from the ether. But learning can be wondrous. I’ve built Stones of Erasmus from that conviction — it started “just for fun,” and in the pandemic it became a haven for the kinds of lessons I crave: resources that bring arts and letters to life, that challenge me and my students to go deeper. On my best days, I design the kind of work that makes adolescents sit up — not because it’s flashy, but because it’s alive with big ideas.

I’m still not Mr. Chips — I don’t want to be. He’s a sweet fantasy, a tidy narrative where the biscuits are always warm and the Latin epigrams always land. My classroom is messier, louder, more human. And when it’s all too much — when the commute freezes me, when the schedule crowds in, when the curriculum needs more tweaking than time allows — I remember why I came: to spark wonder, to foster thinking, to help kids map the disorder and sometimes find the hidden order inside it.

So, goodbye to the fantasy — and hello to the practice. I’ll keep showing up, tweaking, failing, trying again, and laughing at my own slide-deck-at-the-bell chaos. And on the days I manage to create a little stillness amid the storm — a circle of tea, a shared poem, a question that lingers — I nod to that dapper gentleman in my imagination and whisper, with gratitude and a grin: Goodbye, Mr. Chips.

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Sandcastle Moments and Subway Shirts: A Midlife Sabbatical from Queens to the Gulf

On sabbatical and soul-searching, I reflect on family, identity, and what it means to start over—again—from Louisiana to New York.

I woke up this morning from vivid dreams of libraries, petty theft, and people from my past. My mother was telling me to hurry up and get on with it—classic dream logic.

The Sabbatical Life

I’ve taken on a self-imposed sabbatical. That’s the nicest way I can frame it because no one really wants to hear the words “unemployed” or “jobless.” But that’s where I’m at—and it’s a decision I made. I’m a teacher by trade, though I’ve worn many hats (and I’m not even talking about reincarnation).

I plan to be back in a classroom by September. (And if you’re reading this before then, dear reader, don’t jinx it.)

I like to call this a sandcastle moment: one of those times when the tide comes in and sweeps away the intricate structure you’ve built, and all you can do is start again. As a kid, I loved standing in the wet sand, letting the waves rush over my feet, tugging at the earth beneath me. That was the Gulf of Mexico of my childhood—a brown, brackish sea that never made it onto postcards.

Now, as an adult, I avoid beaches. Sand gets everywhere. But childhood made them magical.

Adult Life and the Flotsam of Responsibility

In adulthood, I’ve lost that innocent lens. Bills pile up. Garbage needs to be taken out. Taxes lurk. Cover letters wait to be written. I distract myself by listening to that haunting song from Donnie Darko—you know, the one with the time-traveling rabbit (cue Mad World by Gary Jules).

Still, I know I’m a good teacher because I’m not afraid of mess. I am, however, sensitive—to place, to atmosphere. I left my most recent job after only nine months (a full gestation), right after February break.

Part of that was my gut talking—something I’ve learned to trust, even if I come across as sweet and naïve. And part of it was concern for my mother, who had undergone two major surgeries in as many months. The last time I’d seen her was when we buried my father.

In a dream, a banshee hissed at me: “What if your mom dies, and the last time you saw her was at your father’s funeral?” So, I booked a flight from LGA to New Orleans and went home.

My Journey of Personal Growth: A Forty-something’s Self-Reflection

As a kid, I dreamed of becoming an adult. Join me on a reflective journey of personal transformation—through youth, monastic life, teaching, and the Nietzschean notion of amor fati—as I navigate the complexities of turning forty with hope, introspection, and an unyielding embrace of life’s uncertainties.

Me in a family Christmas photo—I'm like nine or ten (circa 1989)

As a kid, I dreamed of becoming an adult. From my early adolescence to the present, my life has been marked by transformative periods of personal growth and self-discovery. I see these phases as chapters, each contributing to my evolving identity as an individual and as an educator.

Me in the Late Nineties Entering Ms. Decker's Freshman Biology Class
Image Credit: Mandeville High School Yearbook

Youthful Exploration (Ages 12 to 18)

Between the ages of 12 and 18, I was in a stage of youthful exploration, where my interests spanned from joining the book club and library club to participating in theater. I started understanding my identity better, acknowledging my sexuality, and embracing my “Louisiana-ness.” This was also a period of profound spiritual exploration as I deeply engaged with Catholicism. At the same time, I was fortunate enough to travel and broaden my perspectives, continually feeding my voracious appetite for reading and learning.

The ‘Monastic Period’ (Ages 18 to 28)

The next ten years, from 18 to 28, I describe as my “monastic period.” I embraced a life of simplicity and devotion as a Benedictine in the seminary. Besides living in Europe, I completed my undergraduate and graduate studies during this time. The benefits were many: a carefree existence without the worry of rent or expenses. However, this period also marked a time of suppressed sexuality—an important aspect of my identity.

Shifting Gears: Teaching and Life Changes (Age 28 and Onward)

At 28, I decided to leave the monastic life and ventured into the world of teaching high school. This marked the beginning of another transformative chapter that spanned 14 years. During this time, I earned a second master’s degree, taught in various New York neighborhoods, and I finished an advanced certification to teach adolescent English from Hunter College. It’s a defining moment as I’m equipped with a robust educational background and valuable experience.

Me in my early 30s

Comparing Generations, Embracing the Future

Reflecting on these experiences in my 40s, on the cusp of turning 45 years and one month old (tomorrow), I can’t help but make comparisons to my mother’s life at my age—hers was marked by tumultuous times. Today, Mom sent me a sweet text message (funny how when she was in her 40s, she had a pager):

“I pray you are having a good day. Stay safe!! I’m proud of the hard work you do. Love you!—Mom!”

Mom had it tough—both of her parents had died before she graduated high school. She divorced bitterly from my father after a marriage of twenty years. She had Cancer, then a series of other health setbacks—and then a diseased aorta—but she made it through strong each time. Mom attributes it to her faith. I attribute it to her tenacity and very strong ego (but not egotistical).

As I consider my own future, and think of my own troubles, they pale in comparison. I live a single life; I am a high school English teacher, and I don’t own a house or a car (but I live in New York City, so that’s normal). I still hold onto the belief that I can cultivate a happier existence than the generations before me. I am excited about making decisions that align with my aspirations and moving forward, free from self-imposed limitations.

But it is scary.

Navigating the Complexities of Adulthood

The last 14 years have been a challenging journey—one where I truly learned to navigate the complexities of adulthood. I went from hoping and dreaming for financial independence to living in different cities, with a host of different living situations along the way (and did I mention I was once a Benedictine monk?). These experiences have empowered me to set ambitious goals for myself and instilled the confidence that I am the architect of my own destiny.

Nietzsche’s Amor Fati and the “Loneliest Loneliness”

Is it Nietzsche who wrote about amor fati—loving your fate, your destiny, embracing one’s limitations not as weaknesses but rather as signs of fallibility, yet also a freedom from illusion? I am finite. Attempting to contemplate the infinite. Now—of course, those are nice philosophical musings. It is easier to embrace amor fati when all goes well—but what about that “loneliest loneliness” Nietzsche writes about? Even then, my response must be, romantically, “yes!”

Yet I find myself more like an outlier—where the excitement of my days are in the peripheries: the early morning hours when I wake up, the brief encounters with commuters on the Q66 bus, or the after-work hours of talking to a friend, or sipping a Coke Zero while watching the sun set at the World’s Fair Marina in Flushing. The rest of my days—work—seem like ephemera. It is the off-days, the in-between things that really matter. But the log of the everyday gets to me. Isn’t that what modernists call the “rat race,” epitomized in comedy form with Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda in Nine to Five?

Me in my room in New York City in My 40s

On Being “Over the Hill”

No one has pity on you any longer when you’re over the hill—especially if you’re employed, salaried, and confine yourself to the creative profession or some other form of non-manual labor. “Be happy. Suck it up. You could have it worse.”

But I still think—now that I am an adult, I dream of becoming a kid.

Final Thoughts

Turning forty-something—and inching toward 45—feels like standing on a precipice. It’s a moment filled with fear, excitement, and the relentless drive to keep going. Nietzsche’s philosophy of amor fati resonates deeply: Embrace all that life offers, the joys and the hardships alike, while acknowledging our finite nature. Yes, it’s scary. Yes, it’s lonely at times. But this is the space where growth, meaning, and genuine contentment can flourish. And, perhaps, it’s also where the childlike wonder hidden inside us can reemerge, guiding us to rediscover the spark we once knew in youth.

Postscript

Thank you for reading, my dear readers of Stones of Erasmus. May this reflection inspire you to keep dreaming, keep questioning, and keep embracing all that comes along the path of growing older—and, indeed, growing up. If you are a newbie to my blog, drop a follow. If you are someone who has been with me a long time—let me know. If you are a teacher, and want my resources, go to my humanities-based store on TpT.

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Overcoming Bullying: A Personal Journey of Strength and Advocacy.

Discover how standing up to a bully in sixth grade taught me invaluable lessons about courage and speaking out.

Hey, y’all. In support of anti-bullying efforts, I want to share a personal story with you. When I was in the sixth grade, a kid in the lunch line bullied me. Every day, he would stand behind me and push me relentlessly. So, I went home and asked my parents, “How can I deal with this bully?” My dad suggested, “Just push him back,” whereas my mom cautioned, “Don’t listen to him; you’ll end up in trouble.” Fast forward to another day in the lunch line. Did I push him back? Yes, I summoned the strength, feeling empowered like Naruto, and pushed him. He fell to the ground, and I was astounded by my own strength. Panicked, I ran to the bathroom—the girls’ bathroom—and hid there for the entire lunch period: five minutes, then ten, then twenty. Eventually, the assistant principal called out, “Are you in there?”

I was then taken to Missus Schott’s office. Why she was named “Missus Schott” intrigued us all, as rumors suggested she kept a shotgun in her office. She asked why I was hiding in the girls’ bathroom. I explained how the boy who had been bullying me all year provoked me to push him. I apologized profusely. She reassured me, “It’s okay. We’ve been aware of his behavior. I’m glad you brought this to our attention. You’re okay.” That boy was disciplined for his actions.

But the story doesn’t end there. Upon returning to my sixth-grade class, guess what happened? He was suspended—not me. When I entered the classroom, to my surprise, my classmates applauded. It dawned on me that I wasn’t the only one suffering from his bullying.

Ever since that incident, the boy never bothered me again. I can barely remember what he looked like. So, what’s the moral of my story? I don’t advocate for physical retaliation, but it’s crucial to stand up for yourself. Bullies operate on a simple principle: as long as they believe they can evade consequences, they will persist. Perhaps the best approach is to speak up and make it clear that their behavior is unacceptable.

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Eulogy for Anthony Greig Roselli, Sr. (1950-2024)

Remembering Anthony Roselli: a heartfelt tribute, written by his middle son, Anthony Greig Roselli, Jr., to a life woven with New Orleans' spirit, culinary passion, and memorable adventures.

Eulogy

[Greig]: I'd like to share a few thoughts that I penned down in the parking lot. [laughter]

Dad in the 1970s.

Anthony Roselli, a man whose spirit mirrored the vibrancy and resilience of the city he loved. In the past days, driving from Frostop to Airline Motors, I was struck by the transformations — y’all, Airline Motors is now a local branch of the New Orleans fairgrounds; that’s depressing. Can y’all believe that?

I found myself on the levee by the Mississippi River. Pam, remember when I brought you that piece of driftwood from there? The last time I saw my father was in February 2022.

I've only recently come to fully appreciate his impact. A woman on Facebook recalled seeing him regularly at Russell's, expressing her sorrow upon hearing of his passing. He touched lives, often without us even realizing it. At 73, he relished life's simple pleasures and profound depths, especially the culinary delights of New Orleans. From the bustling tables of Russell's Marina Grill to R&O's Restaurant, he was a connoisseur of our city’s flavors.

Like my younger brother Nicholas said, our knowledge of New Orleans cuisine stems from him. From high-end restaurants to the humble Waffle House, he found joy in them all. It seems silly to be moved by memories of Waffle House, but they’re part of the rich tapestry of his life.

My father’s life was a blend of deep roots in New Orleans and adventurous escapades. From humorous run-ins with the Causeway Police to mistaken identity mix-ups during my European student visa application — I’m “Anthony Greig Roselli, Junior, not Senior,” I said. Several altercations during Dad's single nights led to his imprisonment in the Parish jail. I'll let you connect the dots...

Dad certainly brought interesting moments! Despite the distance when I lived in Europe, his calls and texts, often oblivious to time zones, kept us connected. “Dad, it's 3 AM here!” we'd laugh.

His Italian-American heritage infused him with a zest for life, bringing joy to all who knew him. His presence was felt everywhere, from Coffee's Boiling Pot in Madisonville, where I worked as a busboy, where he'd lovingly pester me for refills, to the St. Tammany Parish Public Library, where I also worked after school, he'd proudly announce to everyone in the quiet periodicals section, “I’m searching for my book-shelving son.”

His unwavering support for Nicholas Adam, Brad Michael, and myself was constant. Also, his close relationship with his older sister of nine years — Carol Roselli Fallo.

One of my fondest memories involves his friend Jane LaBarre. Dad took us to City Park, where we met Jane for the first time. I’m sure she thought we were feral cats. And what an adventure that turned out to be — including a daredevil escape from the train ride, much to the ‘amusement’ of everyone, including the police later searching for a "Caucasian male."

My father and I fishing at
Percy Quin State Park (circa 1984).

Dad had a way of turning moments into memories, often accompanied by laughter. But the song 'Cats in the Cradle' – it’s a song that now holds a deeper meaning for me.

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon / Little boy blue and the man in the moon / ‘When you coming home, dad/son?’ ‘I don't know when / But we'll get together then / You know we'll have a good time then.’

[tears]

I was the son who moved away and did my own thing, which I believe was my father's gift to me, albeit a sad yet beautiful one. 

As we bid farewell to Anthony, let's celebrate his life not just with tears but with gratitude. He leaves a legacy in his children, grandchildren — Isabella and Ethan, his beloved family, many cousins, nieces, and nephews, and cherished friends — Susan, Danny, Jerry, Sharon, Michael Arevalo, and many more. His life was a tapestry of joy, love, and laughter, shared generously with all of us.

So, as we gather here, let’s cherish the memories, the laughter, and the love he shared with each of us. Let’s celebrate a life well-lived, a heart well-loved, and a man who will be deeply missed.

Thank you, Dad. We love you, and your spirit will always be with us. Yeah, you right.

[Laughter]

Oh gosh.

N.B.: Dad passed away on Thursday, January 11, 2024. The above eulogy, given on Friday, January 19, 2024, is a text in a slightly modified form. To hear the original eulogy, navigate to SoundCloud, where you can listen to the unvarnished version.

Obituary 

Anthony Greig Roselli, Sr., aged 73, passed away on Thursday, January 11, 2024. Cherished father of Brad Michael Roselli, Anthony Greig Roselli, Jr., and Nicholas Adam Roselli, who is married to Brooke B. Roselli. Beloved best friend of Jane LaBarre and her son Michael Arevalo. He was a devoted brother to Carol R. Fallo, a loving grandfather to Isabella and Ethan, and an uncle to many nieces and nephews. He was a proud retiree from the Shell Oil Company. Anthony will be fondly remembered for the warm friendships he nurtured at Russell's Marina Grill and Dixie Chicken and Ribs, where he was always greeted with open arms. Family, friends, and those who were touched by Anthony's life are warmly invited to join in commemorating his life. The funeral service will be held at Leitz-Eagan Funeral Home on Friday, January 19, 2024, from 1:00 pm to 3:00 pm. To share memories or condolences, please visit Leitz-Eagan Funeral Home.

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Personal Revelation: Happy Birthday Post (To Me!)

Today is my birthday. I will not reveal my age because you could do a quick Google search and figure it out for yourself. However, I feel young-ish. Happy birthday to me!

I won't reveal when this photograph was taken.

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🌱 Have you ever caught yourself apologizing for simply being who you are? Today, I had a powerful realization: I often say sorry when I'm my most authentic self. It's as if there's a part of me that wants to "correct" my behavior, to put me back in the "proper" place.

🔗 Why? Because that's how I was raised. Growing up, I was told—either explicitly or implicitly—that being "me" wasn't always acceptable. That showing my true colors was somehow a disruption, something to be muted or hidden away. 

🎭 We carry these learned behaviors into adulthood without even realizing it. They become automatic, a reflex. But the question is, why should we have to apologize for being authentic? Why should we dampen our own light?

🤔 It's time to break the cycle. Instead of apologizing for who I am, I'm choosing to embrace myself fully—quirks, idiosyncrasies, and all. After all, it's those very characteristics that make each of us unique, valuable, and irreplaceable.

✨ So if you've ever felt the need to apologize for being yourself, remember that you're not alone. But let's make a pact right now to stop saying sorry for being the amazing individuals we are. Because authenticity is something to celebrate, not apologize for.

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Embracing Humanity: A Personal Journey into Understanding Suffering

Join me in a candid exploration of personal dysphoria, as I delve into the universal nature of suffering and its deep-seated role in our psyche.

    Hello everyone! It’s Wednesday, just before our significant holiday break. Christmas is approaching – exciting times indeed! I hope you don’t mind a more personal touch in today’s video. Lately, I’ve been grappling with feelings of dysphoria – this sense of being stuck. It’s a deep-seated part of my psyche, and acknowledging it is crucial for me.

    In sharing this, I want to highlight that pain and suffering are universal human experiences. Often, we perceive these feelings as intensely private. For instance, when I express that I’m sad, suffering, or feeling down, words somehow seem insufficient. It’s challenging to convey the depth of human suffering through language alone. Think about it: when doctors ask us to rate our pain on a scale of 1 to 10, they’re attempting to quantify something inherently subjective.

    As an educator, especially in the humanities, I believe it’s essential to deeply understand and contemplate suffering. My role isn’t just to impart knowledge; it involves exploring the complex representation of suffering in art, and sharing it in a way that resonates and provides catharsis – a concept the Greeks profoundly understood as the purging of emotions. In a sense, this video is my way of seeking a purgation of emotions.

    We’re almost at the break, everyone. Hang in there, and thank you for listening. Take care. Bye!

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What Learning to Program in the 1990s Taught Me About How Computers Work and Why Generative Artificial Intelligence Makes Sense to Me

It's circa 1991 — during my middle school years — I attended a small Catholic school where I enrolled in a computer science class. The computers ran on a slow-running operating system called MS-DOS that included a cool feature — a way to code in a basic programming language called QBasic, featuring a simple lime green blinking cursor on the screen. It ran Nibbles, a fun game to boot, but to play more advanced games, we used floppy disks, slightly larger than a postcard but smaller than a standard piece of paper, containing a metallic tape where data was stored.

I requested Dalle-3 to create an illustration depicting
my computer science classroom, vividly filled with
Commodore computers operating on QBasic.

The fun aspect of these classes involved playing games on these floppy disks. However, equally engaging was experimenting with QBasic. It's a simple, beginner-friendly programming language developed by Microsoft. It was quite popular in the late 1980s and early 1990s for teaching programming basics in an easy-to-understand way. QBasic is known for its simplicity, making it a good starting point for beginners in programming. We could create command lines and basic math problems. Our teacher introduced us to subroutines, enabling us to develop more complex programs like a quiz show. For instance, I programmed a game where the user would answer questions like "What is the capital of Washington State?". Correct answers led to more challenging questions, while wrong ones could end the game or reduce progress. By the way — the answer is Olympia.

Over time, I developed an advanced quiz bowl game with fifty unique questions embedded in different subroutine categories, enhancing my programming skills. My fascination with QBasic grew, prompting me to research more about it in the public library. I learned to replicate other programs, such as the classic snake game.

For illustrative purposes — here's a snippet of QBasic code.

SUB AskWashingtonCapital

    DIM answer AS STRING

    PRINT "What is the capital of Washington State? The answer is Olympia."

    INPUT answer

    IF LCASE$(answer) = "olympia" THEN

        PRINT "Correct! Now for a more difficult question."

        AskUSTerritory

    ELSE

        PRINT "That's not correct. Let's try an easier question."

        AskUSCapital

    END IF

END SUB

 

Fast forward to 2023, the world of generative AI is an evolution of my early programming experiences. When using a tool like ChatGPT, asking a question like the capital of Washington State, it processes the query using its neural network and provides an answer, similar to the if-then statements in my quiz game. However, the complexity and scale of these large language models (LLMs) are far beyond what we had back then.

These models, like ChatGPT, are based on vast amounts of data fed into them, enabling predictive text generation. Yet, unlike human cognition, these computers don't 'understand' in the same way we do. They process information based on input from human-made sources, creating an artificial neural network.

Looking ahead, these neural networks could eventually update themselves, especially if they gain access to the internet or large databases. This self-improvement capability in computer programs could lead to significant advancements in AI, potentially paving the way to what some refer to as 'the singularity.' The future of this technology is uncertain, but its potential is undoubtedly intriguing.

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Deciphering the Language of Manipulation: From Billboards to Broadcasts

Percy writes about perception and reality in his 1961 novel The Moviegoer.

In this post, I explore the captivating world of language manipulation and marketing tactics by making my own thought experiment called "Walker Percy's Hamburger."

Would you like a yummy hamburger?

Metaphorical Journey into Authenticity

Picture this: You're cruising down a highway, and suddenly, an image of a perfect, glistening hamburger on a billboard catches your eye. This isn't just any burger; it's an artistic masterpiece that sends your taste buds into a frenzy. It's got glistening lettuce peeking out of the bun, a crispy patty, oozing mayo, and an immaculate spherical bun. This image is so compelling that you find yourself making an unplanned pit stop at the advertised restaurant. However, the reality that awaits you, sadly, is far from the tantalizing image promised. This dichotomy between representation and reality is a phenomenon that American novelist Walker Percy masterfully encapsulated. It also presents a fascinating lens through which we can explore the influence and manipulation of language, especially within the realm of our capitalist consumption.

Walker Percy's Hamburger

Walker Percy's illustration of the mouth-watering burger, which ends in disappointment, serves as a perfect metaphor for how language and marketing tactics can manipulate our expectations. These linguistic structures have a unique way of extending our experiences by luring us with attractive phrases, glamorous pictures, and strategically crafted narratives. One could even say that these structures are filled with what some have coined as "non-content fillables". They don't necessarily provide new information or factual content, yet they prove irresistible. Terms like "popular", "famous", or "most visited" are quintessential examples of these fillables. They aren't verifiable facts or insightful opinions, but they command attention and evoke intrigue, often without any accountability from the advertiser.

This practice extends beyond the fast-food industry and permeates our social world, shaping our perceptions and our consumption patterns. One might argue that these manipulative language structures hinder our ability to experience reality authentically or that they foster distrust. Yet, I propose a different perspective: This phenomenon could also serve as a tool to sharpen our critical thinking. It encourages us to dissect and investigate what's presented to us, essentially turning us into detectives of authenticity in an era of manufactured realities.

Celebrating 1,000 Posts: Reflecting on My Blogging Journey on Stones of Erasmus (Is it a Milestone Worth Celebrating? Yes! I Think it Is.)

Celebrating 1,000 posts on Stones of Erasmus! From poetry to lesson plans, join me in reflecting on my journey as a writer and educator.

1,000 Blog Posts Later

Writing my 1,000th post for my blog, Stones of Erasmus, is a milestone that I find challenging to write about. I started this blog when I was still a Benedictine monk, and it has stayed with me through various life changes, including my stint as a high school English teacher in New Orleans, my time at the New School for Social Research, and my New York City sojourn.

Initially, my blog was a mishmash of embarrassing pieces of poetry and ersatz literary criticism, sprinkled in with some theology and movie reviews. Over time, my blog has evolved and become more focused. Although it still includes some of those early elements, such as movie reviews and records of my visits to random art museums, it now features a lot of educational content related to my teaching career.

One of my earliest obsessions was making things up, and my journey as a teacher has allowed me to indulge that passion. I create digital educational resources such as clip art and lesson plans that I share on my blog. I also write about my creations, sharing my experiences with my readers.

A Writer's Blog As An Excuse To Journal

Writing on my blog has also allowed me to indulge in another childhood obsession: keeping a journal. I still have my first spiral notebook, which contains my first journal entries from the end of my fifth-grade year through the monotony of sixth grade. As an adult, I have only read it once. However, I am considering adding it to my blog, which would be a fun and nostalgic experience.

Answering Questions from My Students

Some of my high school students have asked me about my blog, such as whether I make any money. The answer is yes and no. I used to use AdWords from Google, but I stopped using it. My blog does make money, but it is minimal, around one hundred dollars a year. The income comes from people clicking on a link to one of the digital educational resources I sell, such as my popular lesson plan on teaching Plato's Allegory of the Cave to middle and high school kids.

The Future of Blogging
Another student asked me why I continue to write my blog when long-form writing appears dead. My blog is more permanent than other forms of social media, and I enjoy the idea that more people are likely to stumble upon it, whether through a Google search or a link somewhere. I am always surprised when old posts receive a resurgence, such as a post I wrote years ago about words from Greek mythology or a post I wrote about The Iliad, which has remained popular for some reason. The difference between long-form blogging and other types of content on the internet is that blog writers offer a unique perspective on things. I enjoy reading other blogs, such as those written by nannies or teachers, because they share their personal experiences, which is powerful.

As my blog has evolved, I have also learned some important lessons about writing. One of the most important lessons is to keep writing, even when I do not like it. I easily get discouraged when I get few views or comments on my blog. However, I have learned that if I keep writing, eventually, people will discover my work, and it will find an audience.

Another lesson I have learned is the importance of editing. Writing is a process that takes time to craft a well-written post. I often write several drafts before I am happy with the final version. It is also essential to proofread my work carefully, looking for spelling and grammatical errors. Reading my work out loud is helpful, as this helps me catch mistakes I might have missed otherwise.

Finally, I have learned that blogging is a community activity. Blogging is not just about writing for myself but also about connecting with others with similar interests.

Drum roll, please.

Here are my favorite selections from Stones of Erasmus (in no particular order):

• Grandson and Grandfather: Birthday Portrait
• Story from the Classroom: A Severe Whooshing Sound
• Top Ten Movies in Black & White
• Blaise Pascal On The Contradictory Nature of Human Beings
• Repost from Kurt Vonnegut: Liberal Crap I Don't Want to Hear Anymore
• Book Review: Repulsion as Metaphor
• Travel Postcard: That Time I Visited a Public Library in Saltillo, Mexico
• On Writer's Block — A Journal & Rant
• Thinking About the Roman God Janus On New Year’s Eve
• On St. Ann and Bourbon: A Story of a Mardi Gras Day

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Yellow Day: A Series of Portraits in Yellow and Pink (Plucked from the Multiverse)

Today is Yellow Day, a day to celebrate optimism, happiness, and warmth. In honor of the occasion, I used DALL-E-2 to create several versions of myself in yellow and pink, embodying the spirit of the day. 

Which version of me plucked from the multi-verse do you like the best? Let me know with a like and a comment.

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Throwback Thursday: Pictures from Senior Year in High School (And Others)

With nostalgia in my heart, I look fondly upon the photos of me as a child — more specifically as a senior in high school. With joyful memories and contentment, I reflect on how far I have come. How much would I give to go back and speak encouraging words to my younger self? To remind them it's okay to be who they are; that their uniqueness is something to be celebrated with pride! Remind them not to worry about what other people think — they're just jealous. And if you're going to grow into an amazing adult one day, make sure you own it! Don't forget your retainer either — no matter how annoying it may seem now — because straight teeth don't stay that way forever without proper maintenance.

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