When Satch,* who graduated in June 2001, returned to my classroom last spring, he bore little physical resemblance to the gangly, bespectacled youth who once sat in my sophomore English class. He strode through the door in neatly pressed military garb, hat pressed to his right hip, a thick-chested, heavily tattooed man. I noticed that contacts replaced the Coke-bottle glasses he once wore. But when we shook hands, his smile revealed more than a glimmer of the angry, confused kid who had struggled at school. "They're shipping me to Iraq," he told me. "I leave in one week." The tone...