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At the end of a lesson, I often tell the students: “I must now release you back into the wild.”

Once, Tung responded, “Is this a jail?”

“No!” I declared, “Math class is not a jail!”

“Then why are you releasing us?” he asked.

Good question. “I am releasing you back into the wild. Do you watch National Geographic?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

“Releasing you back into the wild means that you have been in my care, like a hurt animal, but now you are strong enough to go back into the cruel world. For example, if an injured bird flies into your house, you take care of it, make it better, and then release it back into the wild.”

“Oh,” he said, “that happened to me once.”

“What—an injured bird flew into your house?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“So, what did you do, did you nurse it back to health and then release it back into the wild?”

“No,” he said, “I killed it.”

“Oh no!” I was shocked. “Why did you kill it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “I was young, about 5 years old. I didn’t know what to do.”

“How did you kill it?” I asked, “Did you step on it?” I was hoping that the murder was accidental.

At this point, Nathan chimed in: “Tung snapped its neck!” Nathan imitated the ritual execution of a chicken.

“No,” said Tung, forthrightly. “I didn’t do that. I broke every bone, one by one,” and he proceeded to demonstrate, snapping his wrists: click! click! click!

I was appalled.

“I didn’t know,” he shrugged, “I thought I was helping it.”