Earthquake Virgin

“The only source of knowledge is experience.”

Albert Einstein

Adam's leg was bouncing up and down in a kind of nervous shake. My friend Ryan and I were talking about art with him and his mom and sister. Sitting at a table on the sidewalk of the American Cafe, they were waiting for their food. And this kid's freakin' leg was going overtime.

“Who came up with 'Restless Leg Syndrome?' Did they make a lot of money from it?” I wondered to myself. It's genius if they did. Anyway, that's what was rocking the table so much, I thought. Some anxious kid shaking his leg.

And that was my whole experience of the earthquake.

For the rest of the sunny August afternoon, people shared their own off-kilter stories-- on the internet, tv, radio, in streets and shops, over food and drink, talking of how they hadn't experienced anything like it before. Most people told versions of the same tale:

“I thought it was the subway...”

“A huge truck rumbling by...”

“The boiler broke down...”

"I thought I was sick or something..."

“The neighbor's house was crumbling...”

“Someone was rocking my car...”

The story BECAME the story as everyone told and listened and retold and relistened. Some of my New York friends joked that people from California would laugh at all of us for making such a big deal. And many Californians did laugh, rolling their eyes at our near hysteria over a little “temblor” that appeared to have done almost no damage anywhere. To those who live in earthquake zones, we were like teenage girls hysterical over the newest boy pop idol talking to silvering beauties who, 40 years ago, fainted at Beatles concerts.

For those of us who have never experienced an earthquake, it was a moment of dumbstruck confusion. It was reminiscent of September 11^th, if only briefly, because of the absolute lack of context for so many of us. We had no idea what was happening AS IT WAS happening.  

How did people react?  Well, some just cried like babies during a thunderstorm, or like Mets fans in late summer.  Others whooped it up like helmetless daredevils racing motorcycles, thrilled to have had the (terribly pathetic) opportunity to cheat death.  I was in this group, of course.  Still others yawned, shook their heads at the commotion, and went back to work.

As a teacher observing this range of response, this is very interesting.

Give Some Love To the Newbs

You see, all of us quake newbs became what we, in school, ask every student to be: disoriented, clueless, and lost. Students learning new concepts or skills are often completely stupefied. And here's where we in schools mess it up. We see these stupefied kids as STUPID. Instead of seeing them as simply dazed, we see them as unable or weak.

In fact, we see ignorance as either "virginity" (which must be protected ) or "idiocy" (which must be ridiculed or destroyed). In fact, ignorance is merely a stage in the learning process.

Think again about the earthquake. Here is a case study on how people act when they are dumbfounded. It is a sneak peak into how people deal with a donkey punch of not knowing what's going on.

What are you like when you have no idea what's happening? When you've lost your bearings? When nothing makes sense?

The best learners are not good at mastering the material. The best learners are good at being lost. They get slammed with a new experience, are dizzy and confused, and then... they try to figure it out.

So, what am I saying this pansy little earthquake is telling us hysterical quake survivors?  What badge of courage have we all earned from this (lack of) wreckage and terror?

Embrace your newbness! You don't know what the hell is happening? You can't tell your arse from your elbow? Good! You're in the perfect place. You should get lost more often.

Now: learn, you moron.

The Ant and the Grasshopper

And now, an allegory.  A first for iBlog America.

THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER

An American Tale

OLD SKOOL VERSION:

The ANT works hard in the

withering heat all summer long,

building his house and

laying up supplies for the winter.



The GRASSHOPPER laughs

and dances and plays

the summer away.


Come winter, the ANT

is warm and well fed.



The GRASSHOPPER

has no food or shelter,

so he dies out in the cold.

OLD Moral of the story:

Hard work deserves respect.

Cutting corners leads to ruin.

-------

NEW SKOOL VERSION:



There is a beautiful land

named “America.”

It is a wonderful place,

filled with natural treasures

and opportunity.

In it lives two citizens:

the ANT and the GRASSHOPPER.

THE ANT

The ANT is born into a family

with money and connections.

The ANT goes to private schools

and his uncle helps him attend Harvard.

By age 35, the ANT has a great job,

a house in town and one at the beach,

drives a great car, and investments.

He vacations in the Caymans.

The ANT

believes in the “Wealth Filter.”

Those who have or make money

are strong and worthy of respect.

Those who do not

are weak and deserve to fail.

THE GRASSHOPPER

The GRASSHOPPER is born into a family

with debt and obligations.

He goes to public school

and attends any college he can get into.

By age 35, the GRASSHOPPER has two jobs,

a big college loan and mortgage,

and two kids.

He vacations at the pub

or on the weekends.

The GRASSHOPPER

believes in the “Value Filter.”

Those who show value to others

should be respected and protected.

Many things of value

never generate wealth.

This is the story of the ANT and the GRASSHOPPER,

in THREE PARTS.

PART ONE

After a string of beautiful summers,

a hard winter surprises everyone

in the land. One icy day,

the ANT calls a press conference

And blames the cost of the cold weather

on the GRASSHOPPER.

The ANT

goes on TV and says

“The GRASSHOPPER laughed

and danced the summer away

while we ANTS were busy working.

Now, the silly GRASSHOPPER

wants to raise taxes to pay for

the lazy people during this

terrible cold weather.”

The ANT raises his fist and says,

“No one should have to pay

for other people. If you can't

heat your house,

that's your problem!

We should stop helping people

who aren't strong enough

to make a profit

to keep themselves warm!

The strong should win

and the weak should lose!”

The GRASSHOPPER,

who doesn't really follow politics,

sips a beer after his long day

at work and thinks the ANT is crazy.

The GRASSHOPPER turns to his

wife and says,

“Everyone was chilling this summer.
Even the ANTS were partying.
That's ok!  We all work a lot."

The GRASSHOPPER went on,
"But this winter is hard.

People need to help each other out.

Not everyone is born rich and healthy.

How about the elderly?

Retired and injured veterans?

Some things that never turn a

profit are important, too.

Firehouses and police stations

don't make profits,

neither do bridges and schools.”

The GRASSHOPPER turns on the

baseball game and opens

another beer. He goes on,

“Even an ANT needs help

when things get bad or go wrong.”

“One day, I'm going to become an ANT,”

says the GRASSHOPPER's son.

“Not unless you win the lottery,”

says the GRASSHOPPER's mom.

“Or marry somebody rich!”

says the GRASSHOPPER's daughter.

But the winter ends and summer comes,

and everyone is happy

and stops talking about it.

PART TWO

The next winter, things get even worse.

It snows for two weeks straight

and everyone's pipes freeze.

One particularly cold and gray day,

the ANT calls a

press conference.

“GRASSHOPPERISM is about

giving handouts to those

who do not deserve it.

Our society should stop paying

so much for schools, health care,

regulation, and safety for the lazy

GRASSHOPPER.

If it doesn't make money,

it should fail!”

The ANT raises his fist and says,

“We need to lower taxes!

Your mistakes are YOUR fault!

The ANT Way is simple:

every ANT for himself.”

America is stunned

by the ANT's brilliance.

It is easy to understand

how the strong should win

and the weak should lose.

The MEDIA gets

high ratings showing video

of GRASSHOPPERS

who commit crimes,

do stupid things, and are lazy.

The MEDIA also gets

high ratings showing video

of ANTS

who spend lots of money,

do exclusive things,

and hang with cool people.

The MEDIA gets

the best ratings

when an ANT fails at something.

Everyone on TV says

“look at how that ANT

ended up failing

like a GRASSHOPPER.

What a loser!”

Books fly off the shelves

to become best-sellers:

-Pinheads and ANTS

-Godless: The Church

of GRASSHOPPERISM

-The Audacity of

the GRASSHOPPER

-The Secret Connection

Between the GRASSHOPPER

and Islamic Fundamentalism

- God Helps ANTS

Who Help Themselves

The GRASSHOPPER,

shivering in the winter air,

listens and thinks,

“Maybe the ANT is right.

Life would be better if

I had more money.

I hate taxes. I'm tired of

taking care of other people.

IT'S MY MONEY!”

The GRASSHOPPER gets mad

at other grasshoppers.

“GRASSHOPPERISM

is ruining our country.”

PART THREE

The Winter Election shows

grasshoppers

talking like ants.

The ANT Party wins big!

Taxes drop to historically

low levels for everyone--

but especially for the ANT.

The ANT uses his money

and connections

to lobby Congress

to rewrite the tax code so that

ANT spending and expenses

can be deducted.

Regulations are lifted

on businesses so that profits

can soar.

The ANT hires an

accountant buddy from

Yale to shelter

ANT family money in

offshore accounts.

The ANT laughs at

how silly

the GRASSHOPPER is

to not know how to do this.

After the election, the

GRASSHOPPER buys a

big house. He takes

out a loan

to act more like the ANT.

“The ANT Way is awesome!”

the GRASSHOPPER's family

tells him.

“Our car sucks! Can we

get a cooler one?”

the GRASSHOPPER's son asks.

The next winter is

one of the coldest and iciest ever.

Foreclosures sweep the nation.

It turns out that

the savvy ANT has been

selling bad mortgages

and loans

to naïve grasshoppers

who can't afford them.

Everywhere, GRASSHOPPER

businesses go bankrupt.

When Big ANT Business

goes bankrupt,

the ANT uses his connections

in Congress to get a bailout

that he doesn't have

to pay back.

The ANT laughs at

how silly

the GRASSHOPPER is

to not know how to do this.

The GRASSHOPPER

gets laid off.

He finds out his mother

has cancer

but insurance won't cover it

because they call it a

“pre-existing condition.”

The GRASSHOPPER

applies for unemployment

and moves in

with his mom to take

care of her while she dies.

“You're and pathetic, Dad”

the GRASSHOPPER's son

tells him.

“You are too weak to be an ANT!

You deserve to fail!”

The story ends with the ANT,

sipping a cocktail in The Caymans,

watching TV from his hot tub

in his luxury condo.

The MEDIA gets high ratings

showing stories of

schools, firehouses, and hospitals

closing down.

There are pictures

of bridges collapsing

and veterans and the elderly

not getting health care.

“Another gin and tonic, Jose”

the ANT politely asks the

GRASSHOPPER he hired

to be a housekeeper.

The ANT shakes his head

and thinks about

how silly the GRASSHOPPER

is to not know how to work harder.

NEW Moral of the story:

Everyone for him/herself.

Casey Anthony and Atticus Finch

WWAFD? (What Would Atticus Finch Do?)

A pretty mommy, a dead girl, and a lawyer from Alabama

Yesterday, on television, I heard a person say that the American public was divided in three groups:

1.  Those who think Casey Anthony is a child-murdering psycho who was unfairly found not-guilty.

2.  Those who think there wasn't enough proof to convict her, despite her likely contribution to her daughter's demise.

3.  Those who scratch their heads and say “who the hell is Casey Anthony?”

Almost everyone who is saying anything in the media, from TV to facebook, is in group 1. It's frankly hard to find anyone who thinks that Ms. Anthony is innocent.

The Casey Anthony trial has achieved a sort of unique “media gravity” over these past couple of weeks. In a media culture where number of hits drives the value of any story, this trial has gone viral in a way we haven't seen in years. And no wonder: the facts of the case are strange and horrific. They are also wildly compelling. I watched the closing arguments at my mother's house, cleaning up after a picnic.

Comparisons to the OJ Simpson trial are not surprising-- nor are they unwarranted. While the controversial element of race played no direct part, some of the American media's other favorite topics did. Gender. Beauty. Youth. Family disfunction. A crime against a little girl.

The public has largely convicted Casey Anthony-- and the fact that the jury found otherwise has become it's own media story. People are, apparently, really angry and dismayed. I've been interested in the widely reported “outrage” at the verdict.

It all seems so familiar to me-- but not because of the parallels to the OJ Simpson trial. The idea that so many people would be so upset by a jury verdict that didn't “make sense” to them got me thinking about a book that, despite its hallowed place in American public schools, seems so at odds with how people are reacting to this trial.

Look, I don't know for sure if Ms. Anthony killed her daughter.  She certainly doesn't look very innocent to me.  But I don't know for sure-- and neither do you.  And that's point.

A Roman Carnival

As an English teacher, I can't help but love certain books that I've taught. Talk to enough of us and you'll find that teachers often describe the “honor” of teaching certain concepts, skill, or ideas. It's a part of the gig that many teachers see as the real duty of a teacher. We serve the kids, sure-- but we also serve the very “stuff” that we are tasked with instructing.

I loved teaching To Kill a Mockingbird. As a first year, I got to teach my first pupils about Atticus Finch, Boo Radley, and Tom Robinson. I marveled that I got to be the guy who introduced students to one of the best texts in American history, a text so richly drawn and so wildly significant that the mere mention of Atticus' name inspires reverential sighs from people of all stripes.

I remember catching a janitor at my school surreptitiously reading the dust jacket after school. He peered over at me and said, “I love this book. This is the only thing I read in high school.” He sighed and, before returning to emptying the trash cans in the room, added, “Atticus Finch is a cool dude.”

It's true. Atticus is cool. And the basic concept of the text, that our flawed and fragile trial system is the last and most elegant line of defense against mob rule and prejudiced thinking, rings my bell these days as I watch this Anthony trial hoopla.

So, as we shake our fists at flickering flat screens across the country, bemoaning the end of justice, turning on porch lights to honor a little girl whose death will, sadly, never be understood, let's find some context.   Take a look at the text of Harper Lee's incandescent novel about the bitter and difficult road to justice by trial, in all of its harsh reality and inspiring glory.

And, after reading these quotes, I'll bet you'll want to read Mockingbird again. Spread the word, baby.

Chapter 11

"Atticus, you must be wrong...."

"How's that?"

"Well, most folks seem to think they're right and you're wrong...."

"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions," said Atticus, "but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."

Chapter 16

“You goin' to court this morning, Miss Maudie?" asked Jem. […]

"I am not. 't's morbid, watching a poor devil on trial for his life. Look at all those folks, it's like a Roman carnival."

"They hafta try him in public, Miss Maudie," I said. "Wouldn't be right if they didn't."

"I'm quite aware of that," she said. "Just because it's public, I don't have to go, do I?"

Chapter 20

Atticus went on. "But there is one way in this country in which all men are created equal – there is one human institution that makes a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, the stupid man the equal of an Einstein, and the ignorant man the equal of any college president. That institution, gentlemen, is a court. […] Our courts have their faults, as does any human institution, but in this country our courts are the great levelers, and in our courts all men are created equal...

"I'm no idealist to believe firmly in the integrity of our courts and in the jury system – that is no ideal to me, it is a living, working reality. Gentlemen, a court is no better than each man of you sitting before me on this jury. A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the men who make it up. I am confident that you gentlemen will review without passion the evidence you have heard, come to a decision, and restore this defendant to his family. In the name of God, do your duty."

Chapter 25

How could this be so, I wondered, as I read Mr. Underwood's editorial. Senseless killing – Tom had been given due process of law to the day of his death; he had been tried openly and convicted by twelve good men and true; [Atticus] had fought for him all the way. Then Mr. Underwood's meaning became clear: Atticus had used every tool available to free men to save Tom Robinson, but in the secret courts of men's hearts Atticus had no case. Tom was a dead man the minute Mayella Ewell opened her mouth and screamed.

The Best Peep Show Ever

After a month off, iBlogAmerica returns with a piece about the memory of the internet.  This post marks my first year anniversary of this blog.  Thanks for reading and commenting!  
I will do my damnedest to keep your interest for another year.
Michael

The internet, organically digital.

Take a moment to consider how much of your life is online.

For some, the online self appears like a cross section in a geology textbook, a slice cut out of a life, a snapshot in time of what matters in a moment.  For others, the cross sections are so many and so rich, a nearly three-dimensional self appears, like a topographic map with undulating counties and states.

It's amazing how the stamp of our digital lives-- with our emails, photos, facebook postings, tweets, youtube comments-- all come with a date.  These dates, strung together, sketch a portrait of our movements and expressions.  It turns out that we all come with a digital trail, weaving and crossing with others' trails all over the web.  We are the wildebeest and zebra of the cyber-serengeti, both wild and tracked, always leaving a dusty hoof-printed trail behind us.

And we love to watch each other.  The great puzzle-making of following each other online is both anthropology and voyeurism, science and theatre.

On the Same Boat
Google a person and you will be able to count the rings in her trunk, study the fat and lean years, and perhaps identify the existence of a historical fire or flood.  Because everything comes with a day/month/year, our digital lives are like pencil lines on a door frame, marking our growings, our plateaus, our absences, and our ends.  We're not all there.  But enough information about us allows for that great puzzle-making that we humans love to do.  After all, understanding anything requires imaginative jumps to fill in the blanks.  We assemble the shards of pottery pieces of one another's online lives and build the models as best we can.

Looking back over a year of my articles, a couple of years on facebook, a decade or so of emails, I am struck by how much of my life appears on a screen.  In a couple of years, the amount of "me" NOT existing online will be dwarfed by my online self.  The photos in actual albums and actual boxes on my actual bedroom shelves are hilariously few in number compared to those in their digital counterparts.  Anyone can look me up-- our you-- and peep in.

This freaks me out a little-- but not much.  This surprises me.  Instead, I am amazed at how organic it all feels.  Electricity is the new oxygen in a digital ecosystem.  We're all here, basically, for better or worse.  We all can hide (and not hide) as well as anyone else.  Our lives:  our words, our photos, our sounds, our ideas, our friends, our loves, our mistakes, our victories-- these all live as the digital imprint of ourselves online.  Like it or not, we are all virtually here.  There's a comforting "small world" quality about it.

On the Same Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria
Exploration has never really been about geography.  The great explorers of our world are not important because they "found" anything.  The notion of exploration has always been a metaphor, just has the idea of a frontier.  Any student of history knows:  we explore to know ourselves.

Like the tracks of hominids crossing a muddy riverbed of 1's and 0's, our digital footprints don't just prove we exist.  They pay a natural and organic honor to our lives.  They are the beautiful remnants of  lives almost entirely knowable by the traces we continually leave behind.  It's a living fossil record.

In this way, the internet is a natural as the compass, medicine, or powered flight:  logical, contrived, inevitable, inspired, and absolutely human.

To listen to this as a podcast, click here!

Apocalypse, Soon

Our last, best days.

We're screwed!

Oh, sure, Harold Camping's Rapture didn't come to be. Along with many of you, I got a real kick out of imagining the “end of the world.” I mean, none of us really thought it would happen. But it was fun to pretend, wasn't it?

It's kind of amazing how much we all got into it, too.  It kind of took over.  Everyone has been talking about it.

I think we all enjoyed Rapture Weekend 2011 for the same reason we like roller coasters: it's fun to remind yourself that death is on the way, but not quite yet.

And that's what interests me: most of us, at some point or another, like to contemplate The End of Days. In fact, I would argue that many stories in the media depend on the idea that The End is near.

It's All Over

In case you haven't heard, the world actually IS still ending. Well, the world in which the United States is first-place is ending. The American Age is ending.

Even nature knows that we've already peaked as a nation. You can't escape the bad news, people.

In the few newspapers still in print, you can read about terrorists, the widening gap between the poor and the rich, the always growing threat of extremism, earthquakes, floods, oil spills, and superstorms destroying our communities. You can read about the enormous cost of the our military actions in Middle East, the tens of thousands killed in the drug war on the US-Mexican border, how fat everybody seems to be getting, and how our bridges and roads are falling apart.

On the internet, you can read about how broke everyone is (except for the people who are so not broke) or that public education is not working and that we should weep for our children. Especially our brown children. You can learn the costs of our unjust health care system and the of unemployment numbers that haven't been seen since the Great D (don't say the whole word; it's bad luck). You can read about the incredible and growing divide between the rich and everyone else.

On the tv, you can get your mind blown about the size of the deficit. You can also learn about how easy it is for kids to find jaw-dropping porn or bomb-making instructions on the web. About how the bees are disappearing and the glaciers are melting.

But that's not the bad news. The bad news is much worse.

I am talking about the sheer number of people who seem to believe that we're in the age of the United States' “Last, Best Days.” Capital letters and quotes. The whole shebang. It's all over, baby. Prepare to be second best in the world. Or maybe third best. The future will be all China. Or India. Or Mexican immigrant. Whatever.

Our greatest national strength has always been optimism. Our greatest strength now appears to be fear. Look at the last thirty or forty years of politics. The biggest thing that seems to get us out to vote (whether it's for Dems or Repubs or Tea Partiers or Rent Is 2 Damn High or whatever) is fear that the other side might win and then ruin everything.

Team Fear

Fear drives our culture. It drives our commerce. Everyone is afraid of getting sick. Of dying. Of getting robbed. Of litigation. Of growing old and ugly. Of becoming unimportant or uncool.

America has always had fear-mongering. It's as old as the Republic itself. Every generation worries that the good ol' days are way better than today and tomorrow.  That's not new. 

What's new is the open derision of hope-mongering.  The strongest message out there seems to be “don't believe it can get better.”

As we all have a laugh about the egg-on-his-face Harold Camping and his ridiculous followers, we may be tempted to be smug. How delicious it is to read about the crestfallen believers who can't comprehend that The End didn't happen.  "What a bunch of clowns," we might think.  "Fringe nutjobs!"

But I think the popularity of Camping's prediction says more about us all than we like to admit.  

For now, you'll have to excuse me.  After cleaning up from my awesome Rapture Party (sorry, I really meant to invite you all), I have to figure out how I'm going to pay for my retirement after Social Security is dismantled.  I also need a good plan to deal with my massive school loans-- anybody have a suggestion? Oh, and I should probably look for a job; there's no way my teaching job will exist in a few years.  I need to sell my car, too-- gas prices are way too high!  And does anyone know a reasonable place to move in Canada?  I'd like to have health care when I'm elderly.

If I make it that long.  Anybody have plans for the October Apocalypse?  Or should we all save it up for the Mayan 2012 Fest?

Your Life Is My News

commentary on Bin-Laden's death

So, Bin-Laden is dead. Pretty big news turned into four or five words.

And his name is now spelled “Usama.” Ok. Too bad I never got to use it while he was alive.

In our 24 hour news cycle, it seems like this happened months ago. We metabolize news so quickly now, it's hard to keep an eye on how long ago things happened. The Royal Wedding, earthquake in Japan, shooting in Arizona-- there is no shortage of significant but easily neglected events.

But Bin-Laden's death seems different than so many of these countless stories that just go by.  Take the Bin-Laden victory parties of a couple of weeks ago.

Last week, a student at Boston College sent me a video of himself and fellow students celebrating the night the President announced that Bin-Laden was dead.

It's quite a scene. The first couple of minutes are frantic, hand-held shakiness of kids running through what must be BC's campus, late at night. It's impossible to watch without getting a little woozy. The last couple of minutes of the video are easier to watch because the video is more stable, but harder to watch, too, because of the content.

Hundreds of college kids, mostly white males, are standing on tables and pajamas on tables in a large room of the school library. It's around midnight and these kids are going crazy. They are yelling and singing, waving American flags. It sounds like a party after a big sporting event and the kids look incredibly elated and wildly happy. They are singing together. They begin with the classic “na na na, goodbye” chant but, at some point, they segue into The Star Spangled Banner.

I had mixed feelings watching it. It was great to see so many college kids energized by something so purely political and patriotic. I'm used to seeing kids roll their eyes when saying the Pledge of Allegiance, so it was nice to see kids genuinely show some American pride. But it was also kind of scary. This wasn't just a celebration of America. This wasn't outside the White House. This looked a lot like a bunch of kids who had something to focus all their untapped energy on. And the thing they were focused on was the sweetness of revenge.

I thought to myself, “is it ok if they celebrate revenge?”

Then another thought occurred to me.

I wonder if American kids of a certain age aren't the most affected by this news (apart from those who were directly affected by the tragedy that day). Those who were from 2^nd or 3^rd grade to 12^th grade in September of 2001 must've had a unique perspective on the attacks on 9/11. They were kids grappling with the first major attack on the American homeland in the history of our country. Bin-Laden wasn't just a bad guy. He was the WORST guy, the opposite of Santa, the scariest dude in the world. His death is a paradigm shifting, world-remaking event for these kids. It's a huge deal.

Big enough to dance on a table, I'd say.

The death of Bin-Laden is a strange news event because it affects so many people in such different ways. For most, it's a big deal for a few days. But for few, it's a turning point, a milestone, an incredibly significant event.

But, then again, it's not really all that strange.

Every news story is this way. Turn on the news tonight or skim your favorite news website and there it will be: an astonishingly personal event for few and a "just another headline" for everyone else.

And that's what makes all news so complicated, so fragile, and so valuable.

Every life has a story. Every story has a life.

Detachment

To hear this as a podcast, click here!

Movie review of the world premiere of "Detachment" at the TriBeCa Film Festival.

The truth about high school is that it's worse than you remember it.

Watching Tony Kaye's enthralling “Detachment,” you can't help comparing your high school to the one on screen. You remember the terrible teachers you had, the sterile hallways, the asinine classmates, and the absurd assignments. You can remember the “weight that presses on everyone” as Mr. Henry Barthes, played by Adrien Brody, tells his class.

“If you can just hang on, everything will be alright.” Mr. Barthes is that hero teacher that we love tell stories about. He's the Christ, the Buddha. He's meant to save us from ourselves.

The problem? Mr. Barthes is a great teacher because he has no life outside of teaching. Like countless other mythologized teachers, Barthes is a detached island to himself, without spouse, children, or personal life.  He's a lonely dude.

As a public school teacher sitting in the audience at the world premiere last night in Tribeca, I have mixed feelings about telling you that Tony Kaye has masterfully succeeded in capturing public school in a macabre and beautiful chalkboard sketch. His lush, mannerist portrait brings a gorgeous but searing light to the lonely reality of the teaching profession. Mr. Kaye's “Detachment” presents school the way so many of us on the inside see it: a windswept wasteland scourged of its humanity by a culture that burdens its underfunded and unfairly censured teachers with rearing, policing, and institutionalizing our children.

I hate to say it: public school really is this bad. The few great teachers that our system manages to attract are barely hanging on from year to year, knocked senseless by a society that demands way too much from them.

Adrien Brody is riveting as a seemingly serene but deeply damaged substitute teacher.  His sloping eyebrows, sometimes treacly or overwrought in other performances, here convey an-inch-from-the-cliff hopelessness without ever becoming a mask.  Mr. Brody's Henry Barthes is sweetly but searingly honest with his students as he sadly skulks the halls of his school.  Barthes is also furious enough to throw desks in his classroom and scream at a late night nurse at his grandfather's assisted care facility. In close-up, documentary-style interviews, Mr. Brody's eyes flash like lightning one moment and then become as dull as concrete the next, daring us to try to understand how one can care so much and so little. It's a career performance.

Barthes' determination to be disconnected keeps him the perennial substitute-- in the classroom and in his personal life. Barthes tends to his grandfather but finds more than enough time to help out two lost girls, a young prostitute and an overweight loner. Despite his earnest efforts, almost none of it works out well. The complicating plot lines, all involving family surrogacy around Barthes, serve the notion that teachers must be dispassionate and alone in order to perform their jobs. The story survives its few yet regrettable school cliches by sticking to this thesis.

Despite the fact that the number of big names threatens to make the movie look like a cameo-fest (Lucy Liu?  Christina Hendricks?  Marcia Gay Harden? Blythe Danner?  James Caan?  Really?), the ensemble gels together surprisingly well.  After all, weren't your teachers an impossible cast of characters?  The performances are just fine, largely, but two are particularly successful. While Mr. Caan's grinning jester provides a refreshingly necessary gallows' humor in some of the film's darkest moments, it's Ms. Liu's imploding truth-teller that lends undeniable heft to the story. As a guidance counselor faced with yet another unreachable know-it-all teen, Ms. Liu's character finally breaks down, berating the student with a bleak prophecy of the child's future. “You will NOT be a model! You will forever be on a carousel, competing with 80% of the country for a minimum wage job for the rest of your life!” the guidance counselor screams uselessly at the apathetic teen.

It's grim stuff, made more grave by the undeniable ring of truth.

The ancient Greeks tell us "we suffer our way to wisdom."  By the end of the film, you'll hope that is true for most of these characters.  Somewhere on screen, between a silent hug and the opening lines to Poe's “Fall of the House of Usher,” you will find a glimmer of hope. But you have to work for it.

School, as the film has drawn it, is a Munch-esque desert where the best anyone (teachers and students) can do is survive. But the fact that Barthes, and teachers like him, won't give up-- and the fact that Mr. Kaye made this movie-- tells us that hope is alive, if not well.

This hope rests almost entirely in our lonely, detached teachers.