A love letter to my freshmen.
These kids today, man. They're the best. They're thoughtful, enthusiastic, full of dreams and passion. These kids have plans. They want to help people. They want to go to med school, get a job, have a family, retire rich and sail away on a yacht. They have a sense of humor. They're endearingly earnest, refreshingly optimistic. I admire them.
These kids today in my class – they gave it a shot. I'll love you a long time if you laugh at my bad jokes. They chuckled, and they held back the rolling of eyes that might have been. We'll get along well, I think.
These kids ask great questions. Inquiring minds want to know: how does the sun shine, why can a match start a flame, and what is the deal with quantum, anyway? There are so many topics, but there won't be enough time to discuss them all, though we started today.
We just cracked the cover on this new semester, turned to the first page, pen poised and ready.
I love a new notebook. It promises such possibility: these experiments will succeed and they will change the world a little. I will do good work with this book.
These kids are patterned pages, beautifully blank. They hold such promise. They will do good work. They will change the world. We will learn such wonderful things together.
These 'kids' are not all kids, I know. And I know that no notebook survives its experiments pristine. But we'll tell stories about the splashes and splotches on our pages. We'll learn something in the making of them.
These kids today are delightful. It's my pleasure to teach them.