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“Oh, hello.”

Yep. That is definitely a girl walking around with a bunch of flowers.

“This is Kynesgrove, right?” She shakes out her braids and adjusts something shiny around her neck. “I’ve been walking all day. I got lost twice. I’ve just been trying to find a place where a dragon has already been defeated. I’m Hieri, by the way.”

“You’re . . . Hieri? Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Uh, probably not. Back home, they started calling me Hieri the Hasty after I left because of . . . how I left, I suppose. It was in a hurry. But I look pretty good for all that, no?”

She brandishes her flowers. Oh, no: that’s a staff. A staff? Why’s it got flowers on it? And does that red cloak mean she’s with the Imperials? It doesn’t look right for anyone. Certainly not for the weather.

“I never saw an Imperial with a flowery staff before,” you venture.

“An Imperial? Oh! The cloak! Well, that’s just something I picked up. But the staff—you like it?” She steps out from the bushes and brandishes the staff again. “Picked it up quite by accident. Got the cloak to match, though. That was a bit of good luck. But that was after the dragon came.”

“A dragon?” you ask nervously. Just because things have been quiet here in Kynesgrove doesn’t mean you haven’t heard stories. The things some say about Dragonsreach in Whiterun . . . It’s difficult to pay attention, though, because of all the shiny baubles she has hanging around her neck and the greenery with which she has trimmed her clothing.

“A dragon.” She drops to a crouch and says something in a strange tongue and a blast of ice goes right past your head in the snowy air. “Now I’d do that to it.”

“You’re . . . you use the Thu’um!”

“Of course!” She straightens and you can see her get-up fully. Skirt practical enough and tucked up to give her mobility, good boots, some bizarre effort at war paint, and . . . baubles. And greenery. And those damn flowers on that damn staff.

“Hieri the Hasty, you said?”

“Daughter of the best staff-maker this side of Whiterun. I was bringing this staff from my father’s workshop when we heard the roaring and the dragon showed up. By the gods! What a thing. The guards lit right after it, and I did the first thing I could think of: tucked my skirt up so I could run and then waved the staff at it. Did you know that dragons can be allergic to pine? Apparently they can be. This one was. The staff made everything smell just like an evergreen forest, and the dragon started sneezing, and the guards took it right down. I got close, and WOOSH! swallowed up its soul. Next thing I know I’m getting packed off to High Hrothgar.” She sighs. “Hieri the Hasty. It wasn’t until later that I realized I had picked up the Staff of Holiday Hijinks. When I did, I figured it was only right to dress to match . . .”

Happy holidays, everyone, from Hieri the Hasty, Accidental Dovahkiin and bearer of the Staff of Holiday Hijinks.

May your Thu’um be merry and bright.

I put off reading “‘I Am Adam Lanza’s Mother’: A Mom’s Perspective on the Mental Illness Conversation in America” as long as I could. Now I have read it, and experienced the expected results of lacrimal leakage and the gut-twist that comes with helpless sympathy and mute sorrow. (And yes, I realize there are many problems with the piece, not least of which is her child’s lack of anonymity. I have allowed myself the immediate emotional response. Forgive me, and let us move on.) What is there to do? So many of us agree that something must be done—what? I don’t know, but I suspect that we can work out something.

We know mental health disorders or troubles or whatever you prefer intimately, though we may not realize it. We have family members who suffer from schizophrenia, friends with severe depression, our own small breaks from reality that manifest as compulsive behaviors like tossing spilled salt over a shoulder. Perhaps my friend never speaks to me about how her life hurts her, how hopeless everything seems, but those feelings are part of who she is and how she behaves. I internalize them and they contribute to my mental and emotional version of that friend. As I said, we know mental illness and mental-emotional difference intimately, perhaps so intimately that its threads are indistinguishable from those we name “normal.”

I caution my students about “we” in class discussions, especially when the topic requires sensitivity to race, class, or similar distinctions. “When you say ‘we,’” I ask, “think about who you mean. Who is included in ‘we’? Who is excluded? And who is ‘they,’ and why are ‘they’ not part of ‘we’?” The implication in my classroom is frequently that “we” is white middle-class Americans. I have yet to talk about the “we” and “they” of mental health, but the “we” is all of us—every last one of us. How can we ignore the fact that this is an issue of universal wellness and not merely the trouble of a “they” best sequestered so the “we” does not—what? Get infected? Have to recognize the threads of mental illness running through our own normal lives? [...]

I should preface this by saying that this is not meant to be representative of me, how I grade, or how I think of student writing . . . but some of it is how I think about parts of grading, and certainly part of the greater myth of grading. Enjoy.

To the tune of “It’s Time”

So this is what you meant
When you stated your intent
And now you need a thesis to make sure that you say it
Or anything
Whatever
Packing my bags and giving the academy a rain check

I don’t ever want to mark you down
I don’t want to ask “where is your noun?”
‘Cause after all
You know I never sleep at night

It’s time to begin, to grade it
I get my red pen and rubric, but then I’ll admit
I always grade on my gut
But you should understand
I’m pretty sure I give a damn

Not going very well
And I am left to quell
Generalisms that run through miles of clouded hell
Right to the top
Of this stack
Turning to booze and giving legibility a rain check

I don’t ever want to mark you down
I don’t want to ask “where is your noun?”
‘Cause after all
You know I never sleep at night

It’s time to begin, to grade it
I get my red pen and rubric, but then I’ll admit
I always grade on my gut
But you should understand
I’m pretty sure I give a damn

It’s time to begin, to grade it
I get my red pen and rubric, but then I’ll admit
I always grade on my gut
But you should understand
I’m pretty sure I give a damn

I’m a grown-up in name only
My coffee runs out so slowly
It splashes, it splashes

It’s time to begin, to grade it
I get my red pen and rubric, but then I’ll admit
I always grade on my gut
But you should understand
I’m pretty sure I give a damn

It’s time to begin, to grade it
I get my red pen and rubric, but then I’ll admit
I always grade on my gut
But you should understand
I’m pretty sure I give a damn