Cap Kirk

Husband, father, adventurer, software consultant, USMC combat vet, ski patrol trainer. Teams: Blazers / Beavs Favorite Saying: Work hard, play hard(er)

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@BillyReinhardt Why? Dame coming back. Start there.

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@Brady12Clark Da fuck you talking about

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@KY_PDX This aged well.

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@travelingflying No. It’s not true . Not for me

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@BlazerBurner_ Are you a Russian bot?

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@otokyo Suicide rates
Loneliness epidemic
Die in wars
Die on the job
Have to spend time away from our families to put food on the table ..

We’re not fucking robots

Need I go on ?

[Travis Akers 🇺🇸 @travisakers]

A message from a Kindergarten teacher:

After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old:

“My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.”

No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.”

My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me.

When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic.

But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe.

My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown.

And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice.

They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer.

The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.”

As if kindness were a weakness.

Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure —
a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.”
a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.”
a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.”

Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up.

But this last year broke something in me.

The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival.

I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times.

So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998:

“Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.”

I sat on the floor and cried.

No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications.

I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced.

I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers.

So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try.

Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@Joe_Bureau @503Blazerfans If one of the guys got injured trying to win, it would be an agregious mistake

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@Philosophi_Cat @HazelAppleyard_ Best answer

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@503Blazerfans Nothing.

Means the Blazers have (after next season) two experienced guards and two young guards. It's a perfect blend of youth and experience at guard.

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@ChadinRipCity LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOO

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@PNW_working_mom Do a fireworks show. Have the fun .. for an hour

But they go on for 6 hours .

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@Mikel_Jollett Shameful. Pathetically transparent.

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@BamaStephen I’m here for this

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@Charles97119 @blazersforreal Don't sell the team to an oil barren who lives in Oklahoma .. my advice for the day.

[Voice of Reason @raggapegs]

Zelenskyy

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@503Blazerfans No. Hard no

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@BamaStephen 🙏🙏

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@blazersforreal Of course. 7 footers who can move are rare birds

[Cap Kirk @Cap_WSalmon]

@DannyMarang You are correct. He’s not