Did you know that in what is now Afghanistan, there was a university so old it makes Oxford and Cambridge look like toddlers? Yep, it was called the University of Balkh (or the “Madrasah of Balkh”), flourishing around the 9th century in the city once known to the Greeks as Bactra. This scholarly hotspot was a melting pot where Buddhists, Muslims, Christians, and Persian sages gathered to debate the stars and human nature. Imagine a place where everyone swapped ideas over steaming mugs of cardamom tea! 🤓✨

Picture this: luminaries like Al-Jahiz and the mathematician Abu-Mansur of Garras roamed those halls. They were so prolific, churning out scrolls on philosophy, astronomy, and medicine by the dozen, that they often needed extra hands just to carry all the manuscripts. Meanwhile, tea brewed constantly and debates raged hot—sometimes literally, since there wasn’t a central heating system back then. ☕️😄

After the Mongol invasion in the 13th century, the Madrasah of Balkh was largely destroyed, but its manuscripts scattered far and wide: some ended up in Baghdad’s libraries, others made their way to India. Without those preserved scrolls, many Greek and Persian texts might have vanished forever. So here’s to Balkh for saving a chunk of world knowledge—like a medieval backup drive for civilization! 📚🌍

Today, all that remains are a few weathered ruins and a handful of stone carvings, but the spirit of that university lives on in Balkh’s narrow streets, the stories of its elders, and the dusty libraries where medieval manuscripts still rest. If you want to impress your friends on Zoom, just mention you’re studying at “Afghanistan’s first Harvard,” and watch their jaws drop in scholarly envy. 😏🎓

I sit at my desk with a sense of quiet anticipation, prepared to share with you a piece of writing that means a great deal to me—a piece written by my grandfather, Gordon Alfredson, born on June 26, 1930, in Meriden, Connecticut. His father was an immigrant from the rural area of Västergötland, Sweden, and though the man himself was a man of few words, the legacy he left behind can be felt in every sentence that follows. My grandfather was a man who carried himself with a quiet dignity, an engineer’s meticulous attention to detail, and a love of jazz music that colored his days with notes of improvisation and joy.

Though he never attended college, he was, in his own way, an educated man. He was the sort of man who believed in reading, in the value of civic discussions, and in fixing what needed fixing, both in the world and within himself. He belonged to a generation of working men—he spent his entire career at Ryerson, a steel company in his hometown—who took pride in their work and in the simple act of building something with their own hands.

It occurs to me that in these days, a time so different from his, some may regard men of his background as closed-minded, or even hostile to new ideas. Yet I believe his story shows another side of that world—a time when a man could be blue-collar and still carry a mind open to reflection, curiosity, and growth. My grandfather’s life reminds me that it was not always the case that lines were drawn so sharply between thinking and doing, between working with one’s hands and expanding one’s mind.

In his later years, when the habits of youth caught up with him—when he was forced to carry an oxygen tank with him everywhere—he made a point of stopping young people on the street to tell them not to follow his path into smoking. It was a gesture that spoke of a man who had learned, who carried the humility to admit his mistakes, and the strength to try to spare others from them.

And so today, with a sense of reverence and no small measure of gratitude, I share his words—a glimpse into a time of 1930s Fords, clouds of cigarette smoke rolling from windows, and a camaraderie that made the long days of school bearable. It is a window into a past that, for all its differences, still speaks to the best in us: that desire to reflect, to grow, and to remember what it was to be young.

May you find in this essay not only the voice of Gordon Alfredson, but also a reminder of what it means to live, to think, and to treasure the small joys that make up the story of a life.

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Between Classes

A Hicks Prize-Winning Essay by Gordon Alfredson

Everything is serene. All but one person is quiet. Everyone is in expectation of a precious moment when they may escape this exhausting tranquility.

I am waiting. Waiting and waiting.

Many thoughts are revolving in my subconscious at this time each day.

I am still waiting.

I begin to believe that the moment I am awaiting will never arrive.

All of the questions which my subconscious is asking me are almost completely answered when a faint, faraway noise rouses me. The moment of great expectation has arrived; instantly, instantly I react to the sound and gather up all of my equipment and make a heroic dash for the doorway, hoping to be the first to reach the outer recesses.

The bell is signaling that the time is twelve twenty-five and that school is dismissed.

Gad, what a relief.

After placing my brain matter under a laborious strain all morning it is a heavenly feeling to have twenty-five minutes of freedom in which to do whatever I please before returning for my seventh period class.

As soon as the dismissal bell rings I rush like a picnicker being chased like a bull. Leaving the room behind I head for my locker where I gather up my coat and lunch. After acquiring these two necessities I hurry outside to rid my lungs of the hot, stagnant air which fills the rooms and corridors of our high school.

After treating my lungs to the fresh, clean air for a few seconds and looking over the woman situation, I cross the street and clamber into a car—specifically a nineteen thirty-six Ford—belonging to a friend of mine.

The weather up on the “hill” is cold on these winter days so a warm car is a comfortable place in which to eat, talk, and smoke.

Once in a comfortable position I open up the bag containing my lunch and peer into its mysterious depths, discovering sandwiches and an apple. I quickly take a bite of one of the sandwiches. It tastes delicious. Then and only then do I realize how hungry I really am. In no time at all the tasty, hunger-satisfying food is devoured.

While I am eating, five more of my friends arrive and seat themselves in the car.

In a few minutes papers and bags are thrown out of the doors and windows, soon followed by particles of sandwiches, cake, cookies, and fruit.

When these cleaning up operations are carried out, cigarettes are lighted. The first drag is the only one I enjoy. In a few minutes the car is filled with smoke, and finally with much arguing I persuade them to open the windows a short distance. The smoke pours out of the car. A passerby would think that the car was on fire.

The after-dinner smoke is followed by conversation. It ranges from gossip to intellectual discussions. Most of the talk is about members of the opposite sex and the likes and dislikes about members of the faculty, complaints about the excess of homework, and criticisms about courses and the management of the high school.

From discussions with these friends of mine and other students who show a lack of school spirit, I have arrived at the conclusion that if we had younger, friendlier teachers and principals and weren’t held down as we now are, a remarkable improvement in the all-important school spirit would be noticed.

I take part in all of these events in the car until approximately twenty minutes of one, when I excuse myself and reenter the high school.

I place my coat in my locker and then circulate about the corridors, looking over the feminine part of the sophomore class while on my merry way to visit my favorite female sophomore.

We stand around the corridor and talk for a few minutes and then I escort her to her homeroom before the tardy bell rings.

Leaving my friend’s homeroom I go downstairs to the basement, where I stand around in front of room eight with the other students waiting for period seven to begin. Practical jokers are numerous at this scene of feverish activity. Some are eating and a few innocent souls make a useless attempt to study but are soon forced to give it up by other, more joyous students.

One minute before the bell signals the beginning of period seven I leave the crowd and hurry upstairs to await the signal.

The bell rings, and the sophomores surge out of their homerooms. Amid the noise and confusion I meet my friend, and we converse until seventh period begins. Then I say farewell and depart for my now famous seventh period class.

School, even though considered boring and dull, has its bright moments and someday when I am old and decrepit I will look back on my youthful days and treasure these moments which comprise the joys of my high school life.

I stopped for pancakes at a diner just off Route 9 in Plattsburgh, NY (ZIP: 12901, for my fellow map nerds). It’s one of those places where the menu hasn’t budged since about 1983—and neither have the prices, bless their hearts. As I drowned my short stack in syrup, I overheard the table next to me stumbling through their breakfast order in hesitant French, earning bemused smiles and gentle confusion from their very-much-English-speaking server.

Here’s the kicker: Lacolle, Quebec, is a breezy 40-minute drive north. Cross that line, and French flows effortlessly—c’est naturel. But in Plattsburgh, French feels oddly out of place, like cowboy boots at a vegan potluck.

Contrast that with Texas, where you can be miles and miles from the Rio Grande and Spanish is as comfy as old denim. Of course, Texas spent a significant chunk of its formative years as part of Mexico—history has deep roots, deeper even than pecan trees. In fact, there's still a quiet undercurrent among some Texans who feel the border never quite landed right, culturally speaking. Texas is practically its own country—Tex-Mex traditions, bilingual street signs, and communities where crossing linguistic boundaries happens every day without a blink.

Why the stark difference in Plattsburgh, then? Historically, the border between the U.S. and Canada was largely shaped by treaties between distant governments rather than by cultural or economic tides. The northeastern U.S. border, once delineated, hardened into an identity line. Economics played its role too: trade, jobs, and daily life largely stayed separate, preventing cultural blending.

Meanwhile, the U.S.-Mexico border region remains fluid, economically intertwined, and culturally overlapping. Families and businesses sprawl comfortably on both sides. The flow of goods, people, and especially language has softened that border into something more porous, more natural—more human.

America’s borders are funny like that. Sometimes they split cultures cleanly; other times, the lines blur beautifully. And as I wiped up the last sticky bits of syrup, I thought about how borders are drawn in ink—but lived in pancakes, language, and the raised eyebrows of a diner waitress.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers.