“Everything is falling apart, and I can’t hold on.”

“I find myself being a collector of other people’s bad feelings.”

“I worry about being invisible.”

These statements are all metaphorical. The circumstances they are describing cannot be literally true (except that the first one could perhaps be true in an earthquake or tornado).

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In an ancient episode of The Simpsons, the family is supposed to be entering the “Witness Relocation Program” for their protection.

The government agents tell Homer and family that their new last name will be Thompson. There’s a gag in which the agents then try in vain (presumably for hours) to get Homer to respond to his new name. There’s no spark of recognition on Homer’s part whatsoever.

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In the midst of a quick lesson on Figaro’s Aria from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, we asked the middle schoolers, “Where is Seville?”

Just a simple, boring question, meant to establish some context.

However, the answer was interesting. It was not incorrect per se, but demonstrated intriguingly faulty reasoning.

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With wide-eyed innocence, a ten-year-old student shared the words her mother had used to comfort her when she had hurt herself.

“She sad there are always bad things swirling around, and sometimes they land on you.”

I was flabbergasted. I imagined a world in which evil butterflies have the power to curse hapless humans with a touch.

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A teacher reached out to colleagues to ask for help with her African-American males.

That’s what she said: “my African-American males.” Not male students — just “males.”

I applaud this teacher, who happens to be white, for asking for help in order to learn more about the experience of her students and how she can mentor them more effectively. Step one is to stop using the word “males” to identify them.

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