My two wonderful weeks in Munich were over, and because they were so rich with success, touching down at Detroit Metro Airport felt more like a crash landing. The two-week high, quickly reached and peaking at every moment, ended, and I needed an upper.

My nephew Samarth was the first person to teach me that one can kill out of love. As I frequently tell my students, after they have gained some insight into the processes of dehumanization that make violence possible, there is no one who would survive an intent to harm him. They wouldn’t walk again. I’ve studied martial arts for eight years, I tell my students, and continue to do so. But that is irrelevant. There is already a consensus, silent smiling head nods that sign off on the invisible ethical imperative. My students agree. We would kill.

Wayne State University, located in Detroit, accepts a wide range of students and the quaintly named “non-traditional” students. There are some who could attend any university in the world, but choose Wayne for financial, personal or even political reasons. There are others who can barely, if at all, write a complete sentence. Older students who have returned to school, voluntarily or because of a “restructured” economy, work full time and raise kids, are the first to understand the crudity of my nephew ethics. There is no need to explain further. And when I tell them that they have just glimpsed the ethical clarity of one who believes he kills out of love, for family, for country, the full force of the problem hits them. We sit for a moment wondering what to do.

When I returned my nephew, student and teacher, was in the suburbs of Detroit celebrating his little brother’s birthday with his doting grandmother. I was thrilled to see him. “Itchy,” says Samarth, squirming and giggling as I tickle him with a two-week old beard. And we’re off to play.

Back at my apartment later that night, the loneliness is staved off by a sticky sweet voicemail message.

I arrive back at Peddamummy’s house in time to play with Samarth alone before his own birthday party begins. We play soccer in the basement, but it quickly turns into a game of keep away. I don’t let him get the ball easily and when he does, I challenge him at every turn. He is smiling all the time. Merrily, Merrily, Merrily….

I want to teach him to be doggedly, happily, persistent.

Spiderman arrives. He gathers all the kids and leads them through games, dances and other shenanigans. I’m watching Samarth all the time and, although a bit confused, he’s really digging it. At least one kid is terrified of Spiderman and refuses to venture near the superhero’s suburban abode. The adults empathize; they’re weirded out too.

Spiderman begins a magic show just as I’m handed a video camera. Right on. I squat down between two cynical teenagers making fun of the show, quell the desire to punch them in the throat, and point the camera at my nephew. Nothing matters except his reactions. He’s delighted, genuinely surprised when an empty tube suddenly fills with candy, and asks his Mom if she too witnessed the moment of creation.

As things quiet down, I coordinate plans to head down to the Detroit Electronic Music Festival, formerly called the DEMF, now Movement.