Now, tea in hand, I pulled the papers toward me with a sigh. More and more I find that the most basic rules of grammar and logic are lost even on those the boys who are interested, making their study of Latin grueling and their work discouraging for me. I finished the first few quickly—they were some of the better students, and the mistakes they’d made were easy to note and correct. Then came Bryson’s test.

From the start, I had been fairly rigorous in grading his work. I wanted him to know that he could expect no breaks from me simply because we were of the same race. He had taken the stringent grading in reasonably good stride and always showed an effort to correct what had been wrong previously. But now, I found I was looking at his work through new eyes. As my pen moved over his translation, I found error after error, mostly the result of sloppy thinking. The paper was hatchmarked with red by the time I finished. I looked it over for a long time. Stopped to sample my tea. “It is said that man is wisest who can decide for himself what needs to be done.” Cicero. Then, with a deep breath of resolution, I firmly wrote a D-across the top. I hoped that this would begin to teach him the importance of careful thought and of being grateful for the chance he’d been given.

I gazed out the window, drinking my tea. I remembered my excitement upon first watching him run. I remembered the moment that we raced against each other, my feelings—both joy and sorrow—as he passed me by. For no reason I could readily discern, my eyes stung. But with a few swift blinks, I turned back to my work. “The earth produces nothing worse than an ungrateful man.” Ausonius said that. How bitterly I knew it now.

Boys to Men

AS RASHID SAID these words in his chapel talk—“You hear my brother, Kofi, was shot and killed”—a dull roaring began in his ears. It muffled the applause and made it hard to see people getting to their feet. It made his movements feel jerky and unconnected as he accepted people’s words of congratulation or as he avoided the glares of the guys who thought he was just some affirmative action radical, in the school on a quota. When Washington called him out during class, asking him to translate and ragging on him when he got it wrong, it got so loud that he thought he might lose his mind. But it quieted when he spoke up and got into that little beef with him. Then he felt strong again for a minute—the way he had behind that podium. After class, though, the roaring came back.