L comes home for the weekend, dismayed and disgusted. This morning, a new boy in the Home (fourteen or fifteen years old) used words and curses so ugly that the teacher broke down and cried. L felt an urge so strong to beat on the boy that he left the classroom. How, how can a boy speak to a teacher like that, he asked. How can they sit in class and play cards or watch movies on their phone?

Again, words to explain. How some of those boys have known troubles different from his. Troubles that have damaged or destroyed their self-respect and their respect for others. How I commend him for walking away when the urge to strike out threatens to overwhelm him. How it is up to him (and to us) to make the schooling worthwhile with extracurricular sessions, if need be.

Meanwhile, another boy steals his earphones and denies it. Then, the educator chides L for not “sharing” more in their conversations – when, in fact, he should be commending him for keeping his mouth shut when the nonsense scales new heights.

Meanwhile also, the administrative stuff: tiny, minute steps, none of which you can skip. You’re forced to bind your impatience, stay focused, and climb on by increments so small, progress seems  non-existent.

The hero’s journey. In long stretches, anything but spectacular.