Long before Custer died at the Little Bighorn, the myth of the Last Stand already had a strong pull on human emotions, and on the way we like to remember history. The variations are endless — from the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae to Davy Crockett at the Alamo— but they all tell the story of a brave and intractable hero leading his tiny band against a numberless foe. Even though the odds are overwhelming, the hero and his followers fight on nobly to the end and are slaughtered to a man. In defeat the hero of the Last Stand achieves the greatest of victories, since he will be remembered for all time.
― Nathaniel Philbrick, The Last Stand: Custer, Sitting Bull, and the Battle of the Little Big Horn

Last stand is a term we use to describe an individual or group that defends their position or cause in the face of overwhelming odds. In battle, these defensive forces usually lose many members or are completely destroyed, even though they may kill many of their opponents. In other situations, a last stand may not require a sacrifice of life or limb, but it may require a sacrifice of reputation, position, or relationship. To make a last stand is a defining, a watershed moment; it requires one to choose loss, at best, or death, at worst.

So why do it? Though the sacrifice is great, many decide to make a last stand when they realize that the benefits of fighting–physically or otherwise–outweigh the benefits of retreating or surrendering. As historical writer Nathaniel Philbrick explains, “even though the odds are overwhelming, the hero and his followers fight on nobly to the end” in hopes that their sacrifice will be remembered and that their cause will be realized. And though we read about celebrated last stands, I’m sure that we couldn’t begin to count those who’ve unceremoniously made last stands in trenches and rice paddies, in factories and boardrooms, in streets and homes. Authors and directors may not bring their stories to life through books and films, but their sacrifices, too, are notable.

Martin Luther King, Jr. writes that [t]he ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. Perhaps this goes without saying. Still, an awestruck world watches an unshaven Volodymyr Zelensky pledging to stay in-country, standing in the streets of Kyiv announcing that “The fight is here. I need ammunition, not a ride.” As Russian forces attack his nation, we marvel at a leader who matter of factly states that the world most likely won’t see him again. Zelensky leads an exceptional last stand that many of his fellow Ukranians have embraced, vowing to defend their country and to leave a legacy of freedom and courage to their children and generations to come. This is a last stand playing out for us in real time as images of Ukranian citizens assembling Molotov cocktails flood our screens and stories of defiant heroes emerge daily.

Even as I write this, I hardly know what to say. In part, this is because I never imagined that I’d have to witness such a last stand. When nations are at war, their leaders are usually whisked away to safety, in hopes that they might one day safely return and resume their leadership. A leader who refuses to leave is the stuff myths are made of, the fire that ignites the best in us. As the Russian incursion continues, I’ve tried to imagine myself as a Ukranian devoted to preserving my country and my freedom. I’d like to think I’d be willing to make a last stand in the face of these overwhelming odds, that I’d be willing to stay in my city and take up arms. And as I’ve watched Russian citizens take to the streets in protest, I’d like to think I’d be willing to risk arrest (or worse) to make my voice heard. I’d like to think that, even if I faltered at making a last stand, I would at least take a stand for my convictions.

But would I? From the comfort and safety of my American home, I can daydream all I want about the heroic actions I would take, but I’ve never experienced anything remotely like this. Honestly, like many Americans, I’ve often lapsed into complacency, taking my safety and freedom for granted. The closest I’ve come to making a last stand occurred when I once thought I might lose my teaching position because of my convictions. I didn’t. But even if I had, my sacrifice never once involved my safety or freedom. I have no point of personal reference for such a sacrifice, and this is why I can only imagine what I’d do and live vicariously through the stories I read and hear.

And yet, this is something. American novelist William Faulkner writes: I have found that the greatest help in meeting any problem with decency and self-respect and whatever courage is demanded, is to know where you yourself stand. That is, to have in words what you believe and are acting from. When we stand with those who are taking a stand and those who are making a last stand, we might begin to identify what it is that we truly believe and what sacrifices we’d be willing to make. And we can stand with our brothers and sisters in Ukraine and Russia by offering our resources and prayers, by writing the stories of those who continue to demonstrate that they’ve very clear about what they believe and what they’re willing to sacrifice for their beliefs. Ultimately, we can be grateful that we won’t have to make a last stand in order to show our love and solidarity.

In a world of diminishing mystery, the unknown persists.
― Jhumpa Lahiri, The Lowland

Valentine’s Day blew into the high school in a tsunami of red and pink bouquets, waves upon waves of roses, life-sized Teddy bears, and heart-shaped boxes laden with assorted fine chocolates. The storm, which started as soon as the first school bell rang, ultimately came to rest on long tables that lined the back wall of the cafeteria. It was a bounty to behold. Needless to say, little learning took place on Valentine’s Day, and the custodians were left with the aftermath of the storm: classrooms and hallways strewn with crushed petals, candy wrappers, and ribbons.

There were those who left school with their arms and hearts full. And, sadly, there were those who left empty-handed, those whom the storm had simply ravaged, not blessed. As I watched them leave for the day, I wanted to wind the clock back, to return them to their elementary classrooms where their Valentine’s boxes–soon to be filled with cards and candies–sat in neat rows of construction-paper creations on the windowsill. I wanted them to feel the possibilities of an empty box, the mystery of what could be.

As novelist Jhumpa Lahiri writes, we live in a world of diminishing mystery. We know so many things, and what we don’t know, we’re confident that we’ll know very soon. We’ve grown to expect answers and explanations for everything. Most often, we’re not disappointed. But the unknown persists in an empty box; it teases us with all sorts of pleasures and, for a time, suspends us in hope.

Even as a child, the box was the thing for me. More than the bounty of Valentine’s cards, candy, and gum, I took the greatest pleasure in imagining what my Valentine’s box would hold. What types of Valentines had my friends chosen for me? Would they be store-bought or homemade? Would there be candy taped to the back? Would there be a handwritten message or just a name? For the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, I marveled in the mysterious unknown.

In her novel, The Secret Life of Bees, Sue Monk Kidd writes:

I realized it for the first time in my life: there is nothing but mystery in the world, how it hides behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days, shining brightly, and we don’t even know it.

For many of us, mystery probably does hide behind the fabric of our poor, browbeat days. Often, we’re much too focused on what is to give much thought to what could be. To retrieve our faith in mystery, we’d probably have to turn the clock way back to childhood where it was shining brightly more days than not.

A few nights ago, my grandson, Griffin, came over. When I asked him what he wanted to do, he said, “Can we do those experiments? You know, the kind where we see what happens when we put different things in water?” From the time he was a toddler, Griff has loved water. We’ve filled the kitchen sink, the bathtub, the largest mixing bowl–you name it, and we’ve filled it. He’s floated things, sunk things, mixed and colored things. Suffice it to say, we’ve experimented with water. A lot.

And so, I filled the bowl with water and watched as he went straight to the candy jar where there was an assortment of Jolly Ranchers. “I’m going to try just the orange ones first,” he said as he sorted out the red and blue ones. Amused, I chuckled because he’s tried this “experiment” so many times that I’ve lost count. But happy, I smiled because he relishes the unknown, the possibility that this time might be different, that this time might result in something wholly unexpected and miraculous. It didn’t. After much stirring, the water eventually assumed a puny orange tint–as it always has–and he dumped it out. Still, it wasn’t about the results but about those moments of mystery that a bowl of water, like an empty box, presents.

19th century Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson claims that the unknown always seems sublime. We know that, for some, this isn’t always so. As adults, we know that the unknown can often seem frightening, confusing, and depressing. As adults, we might stand in front of our Valentine’s boxes with trepidation, fearing the dark possibility that we’ve received no Valentines at all. For us, life often tarnishes the bright mystery of an empty box.

Still, even as we plow through our poor, browbeat days, mystery is shining brightly even when we don’t know it. To know it, we need good mentors. And we probably need look no farther than the nearest child who, for a glorious season, lives in a world where mystery abounds in something as simple as a bowl of water or an empty box.

The public, which has been wrong before and is wrong now, can accept only demons and angels on the stage.
― Theophille Gautier

“Use a qualifier,” I advised. “When you write animals, you imply all of them. You’re implying that all animals used in medical research are protected by local and state laws and guidelines.” I was conferencing with a student who was arguing for animal use in scientific and commercial testing. There was not a single qualifier to be found in her entire paper. No most, many, some, few. No 50%, 25%, less than 10%. It had never occurred to her to use a qualifier, and when I suggested it, her face fell. I didn’t have to ask her what was wrong. Her face revealed her fears that using qualifiers would weaken her argument. I could almost see her struggle play out in a Faustian way: an angelic absolute on her right shoulder and a demonic qualifer on her left, each battling for control. All or some?

Whether we’re explicit (and use all) or implicit (and suggest all), we speak with authority. There’s something emotionally satisfying about making authoritative pronouncements that apply to all of something, for there’s no gray area to contend with, no exceptions or complexities. Using absolutes is inclusive, which is a good thing, right? All includes every single individual or thing in a given group. Whether we’re praising or criticizing, no one or nothing is excluded when we speak absolutely.

Today, as I listen to a host of controversies play out on social media and in the news, I often feel as though I should take up my red teacher’s pen and begin marking the absolute language I see and hear. I want to pull people aside and conference with them. Did you really mean all progressives when you said progressives? Did you really mean all conservatives when you said conservatives? Did you really mean all politicians, all teachers, all athletes, all police officers, all technology, all sports, all corporations? Undoubtedly, many (a qualifier!) who’ve used absolute language would prefer not to conference with me. They might, instead, prefer to circle their wagons against the exceptions that lurk in the wilderness.

I understand that some people use absolute language with good intentions. They seek to encourage, to compliment, and to ensure that everyone feels included. Throughout my life, I’ve often had superiors who said things like: You’re doing a great job. You’re working hard to make this a great place. You’re going the extra mile, and it shows. They addressed their employees and delivered these words without qualifying them. My workplaces weren’t exceptional, nor were those of us who worked there. I’d venture to say that many workplaces (perhaps most, not all) are like mine. Clearly, not everyone does a great job, works hard, and goes the extra mile. In fact, there are generally few who do. Consider an exceptional employee. How would he feel to be praised as part of an entire staff? How would she feel knowing that her employer regarded her work performance as no different than any other? What would motivate an exceptional employee to distinguish himself or herself from others?

Qualifiers refuse to generalize or stereotype. When two paths diverge in the woods, they take the harder path, the one that demands discernment and reflection. This is probably why they’re not very popular. Who wants the harder, less traveled path?

Theophille Gautier, a 19th century French poet and critic, understood that we can often accept only angels and demons on the stage. That is, on the public stage, we often speak without qualifying, preferring the absolute. For example, today some are insensed by those who insist that controversial books should be banned or removed from school curricula and school libraries. In righteous indignation, they’ve identified the troublemakers (controlling, ultra-conservative parent groups), the books they seek to ban (primarily those with profanity, sexuality and exploration of gender identity), and have declared an absolute position: controversial books shouldn’t be banned or removed.

Yet, consider the Mukilteo School District in Washington state where the school board recently voted to remove To Kill a Mockingbird from their ninth-grade curriculum. This was at the request of staff members who argued that “the novel marginalized characters of color, celebrated ‘white saviorhood’ and used racial slurs dozens of times without addressing their derogatory nature.” This decision came from teachers and school board members, not parents, and the book removed was a classic novel whose primary theme has nothing to do with sexuality or exploration of gender identity. Can the issue of whether to ban or remove books be answered with an absolute yes or no? Are those who want to keep controversial books angels and those who want to ban and remove them demons? Whether you agree with the Mukilteo School District’s decision or not, it does reveal the complexity of this issue. And this issue is just one of many such complex issues.

Speaking of To Kill a Mockingbird, author Harper Lee’s protagonist Scout becomes 26-year-old Jean Louise in her follow-up novel, Go Set a Watchman. Jean Louise wrestles with her conscience after she sees her father and hero, Atticus, at a racist town meeting. Throughout the novel, as she continues to struggle with her father’s beliefs and the changing world, she says:

I need a watchman to tell me this is what a man says but this is what he means, to draw a line down the middle and say here is this justice and there is that justice and make me understand the difference.

Jean Louise wants a watchman who can draw a line down the middle and distinguish what is true and good from what is not. She wants what most of us do, I think. And though there are times and circumstances when clear, absolute lines can–and must–be drawn, there are also times and circumstances when they can’t and mustn’t. In these cases, we must rely on the discernment of the humble, yet invaluable, qualifiers. I’ll be watching and listening for them, in hopes of retiring my red pen.