Dear Nana,
Sorry it's been a few weeks since I've written, but with the Thanksgiving holidays and the whole family in town, I have not had a moment to sit down and write. Yet, today, as I was waiting to cross Park Avenue on 60th Street on my way to the 6 train, I overheard something that struck me and I just needed to share it with you.
As I waited for the light to turn red, a small group of teenagers walked up beside me. I caught the tail end of their conversation. One boy says to another, "I can't believe I'm gonna be 18, dude." He paused to contemplate his statement a moment. Then, "We're getting f***ing old, man."
Ha! I thought to myself. 18? Old? The light changed and I left them standing on the corner, smirking as I made my way across the Christmas lit avenue. How juvenile. How ridiculous, I thought. As if at 18, anyone can be considered old. And just as I was about to brush the comment from my mind, dismissing it as having about as much consequence as a single snowflake in an all-out blizzard, I stopped. Hmm. Actually . . . maybe they were right.
I mean, I know that 18 isn't old. And certainly, of all people, you know that 18 is nowhere near aged. But, at one time, for each of us, it was. And as I pondered this, I thought back to the time when I thought that 30 was old. That 25 was old. That how-can-I-possibly-be-18 time in my life. I even thought all the way back to the time when I was in 2nd grade, the age of my students now. I distinctly remember that Graham, who was in 4th grade at the time, seemed to tower over me with his wisdom and experience. He was in 4th grade! To me, at age 8, 4th graders were the pinnacle of coolness. No one could top their supremity in this arena. (Well, 5th graders probably could. And 6th graders. And 7th graders ... but I didn't know any at the time so 4th grade was my fantasy. My Mecca. When I get to 4th grade someday . . .)
But, isn't that what makes life so, well, liveable. Looking forward to that next phase and all that comes along with it? That feeling of "WOW" I can't believe I'm whatever age I am. How did this happen? And now what? Each new era brings with it new challenges, new excitements, new paths to cross and worlds to traverse emotionally, physically, even spiritually. And I think we say to ourselves "How can I possibly be this old?" with each new phase, because it's too hard to really take all that came before it, all the days and nights and hours and minutes of our personal experiences, and believe that all of those experiences have added up to Now. To this moment. To this age. It's just too hard to wrap it up and put a bow on it and think, well that's my life. That's what I've done, and now I'm 20 or 30 or, in your case, 90. It's easier to just say, man, I'm old. And when we say that, we don't really mean that we're old (okay maybe you did when you turned 90, cause, well, that just is) but we're saying instead, Look at me! Look where I've been and look where I am going. Look what I've done, or haven't done, or all the things I still want to do. Look at all of the choices I've made, the good and the bad. Look where all my roads have brought me. I can't believe I'm here!
You must have had the same conversation that the teenagers did countless times in your life. At 50. At 60, 70, 80, 90 and all those years in between. And so have I. I often find myself thinking, How can I possibly be 32 years old? But I'm sure I used to find myself thinking, How can I possibly be 26?
As I made my way to the 6 train tonight I wiped that smirk off my face. Teenagers aren't usually right. But that boy was. He was f***ing old. For him. And think about how many more times he'll get to say that over the years. And lucky for him, it just keeps getting better. Knock on wood.
Love, Katie
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
A Second Chance
Dear Nana,
Just a quick note to let you know, that, while I never did get a chance to touch those chicks, as I wrote in my letter to you last week, I had the opportunity this week to redeem myself with yet another feathered friend.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we had an assembly at school. Our very own Pilgrim friend came dressed in buckled hat and white tights. He offered the children a selection of gourds and Indian corn to touch and grind and shake, as well as old-fashioned tools used in Colonial Times to explore. But our Pilgrim did not come alone. No. Our Pilgrim brought a friend that was to be the main attraction. A live turkey.
The turkey was named, unoriginally, Tom. It was a large, awkward animal that was quite unattractive. I suppose most turkeys are. This member of the fowl family is perhaps the least handsome. Poor Tom, with his bright red gobble and taloned toes did not hold a candle to the adorableness of the sweet yellow chicks, but, he would have to do. When it came time to pet the turkey, the kids once again clambered, although not with quite the fervor they had shown with the chicks. And as I stood near our Pilgrim and called students up one by one to pet the turkey, it occurred to me that this was my chance. It wasn't quite the same as the chick encounter since, well, Tom was not only the opposite of puffy and cute, but was, in fact, rather scary looking as he rested in the Pilgrims arms, paralyzed with fear of the small hands that kept touching him. But he was the only fowl with which I'd come in contact since the day I'd neglected to pet the chicks. And because I regretted that day and because I vowed to never let my adult-ness get in the way of my child-inside wonder again, I decided to join my students in line and await my turn to pet Tom.
Tom seemed to be glaring at me as if to say, "You too?" but I reached out anyway and ran my hand across his white head which was surprisingly soft. He was, dare I say it, almost cuddly with his downy feathers. Then I stroked the back of his neck where his pimpled skin was rubbery and smooth, like a hundred tiny pencil erasers. I smiled, thrilled with the strangeness of that sensation on my hand and happy that it felt not at all like I thought it would. And then, it was over. I pumped a bit of hand sanitizer onto my hands, rubbed them together, and headed, with my 2nd graders back to the classroom. I was delighted.
And there you have it. I haven't quite made up for missing the chicks. But I'm on my way. One member of the fowl family at a time. I wonder if I'll feel strange about eating my Thanksgiving turkey this year. . .
Love, Katie
Just a quick note to let you know, that, while I never did get a chance to touch those chicks, as I wrote in my letter to you last week, I had the opportunity this week to redeem myself with yet another feathered friend.
In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we had an assembly at school. Our very own Pilgrim friend came dressed in buckled hat and white tights. He offered the children a selection of gourds and Indian corn to touch and grind and shake, as well as old-fashioned tools used in Colonial Times to explore. But our Pilgrim did not come alone. No. Our Pilgrim brought a friend that was to be the main attraction. A live turkey.
The turkey was named, unoriginally, Tom. It was a large, awkward animal that was quite unattractive. I suppose most turkeys are. This member of the fowl family is perhaps the least handsome. Poor Tom, with his bright red gobble and taloned toes did not hold a candle to the adorableness of the sweet yellow chicks, but, he would have to do. When it came time to pet the turkey, the kids once again clambered, although not with quite the fervor they had shown with the chicks. And as I stood near our Pilgrim and called students up one by one to pet the turkey, it occurred to me that this was my chance. It wasn't quite the same as the chick encounter since, well, Tom was not only the opposite of puffy and cute, but was, in fact, rather scary looking as he rested in the Pilgrims arms, paralyzed with fear of the small hands that kept touching him. But he was the only fowl with which I'd come in contact since the day I'd neglected to pet the chicks. And because I regretted that day and because I vowed to never let my adult-ness get in the way of my child-inside wonder again, I decided to join my students in line and await my turn to pet Tom.
Tom seemed to be glaring at me as if to say, "You too?" but I reached out anyway and ran my hand across his white head which was surprisingly soft. He was, dare I say it, almost cuddly with his downy feathers. Then I stroked the back of his neck where his pimpled skin was rubbery and smooth, like a hundred tiny pencil erasers. I smiled, thrilled with the strangeness of that sensation on my hand and happy that it felt not at all like I thought it would. And then, it was over. I pumped a bit of hand sanitizer onto my hands, rubbed them together, and headed, with my 2nd graders back to the classroom. I was delighted.
And there you have it. I haven't quite made up for missing the chicks. But I'm on my way. One member of the fowl family at a time. I wonder if I'll feel strange about eating my Thanksgiving turkey this year. . .
Love, Katie
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Which Came First? The Chick or the Chicken
Dear Nana,
Did you ever have a class pet? I imagine your answer will be "no" because you taught older children than I. Well, I don't have a class pet either, but last week I took my 2nd graders over to the 1st grade classroom so they could meet the school's newly hatched chicks. My 2nd graders sat in a circle as the 1st grade teacher gently plucked the chicks one by one from the warmth of their glass-enclosed home and placed them in the center of the circle. The chicks wandered around timidly, reluctantly letting my 2nd graders lift them into their hands. As I watched from outside the circle, I remembered that I, too, was the proud mother of a baby chick in my own Kindergarten class so many years ago. The chicks, one for each of us, had began as warm eggs in an incubator. When the eggs hatched, out waddled fluffy yellow chicks, dizzy with the brightness of the world outside their egg and uneasy on their just-grown legs. They were so cute it was hard to believe that these sweet pastel puffs would one day grow up to be chickens. To us, they were cuddly, sunshiney balls of joy. We clambered to get our hands on them, looking forward each day to the time when we'd be allowed to play with them.
This time, my 2nd graders scrambled to find the seats closest to the chicks so that they could be first to hold them, just as I had done so many years before. But not me. This time, I didn't even hold one. In fact, I don't think I even pet one of the chicks. Perhaps it's because, as a grown-up, I worry about things like germs, something a child never worries about. Grown-ups don't dig their hands in the dirt and scoop out worms. We don't look under rocks to see if a caterpillar is hiding. We don't fingerpaint. But why? Why shouldn't we? Why didn't I hold a chick? Granted, the chicks, as cute as they were, were pooping all over the place. But the amazing thing is, the kids didn't care. They just wiped their hands on the newspaper that lay under the chicks placed there for just that reason, and scooped up another chick who would, in turn, do the same thing. Scoop up chick, chick poops, newspaper wipe, and so on. The cycle continued and the joy on their faces grew with each new chick they held.
I'm not even sure it's the getting dirty part that really kept me from picking up a chick. After all, hand sanitzer was at the ready. Instead, I think that, as adults, we sometimes stop doing the things that, as children, so amazed us. That little chick was, to me, just a chicken. It had lost that Easter holiday, stuffed animal sweetness that it had once held for me as a child. This chick would one day grow up to be someone's dinner. And, in that moment, I couldn't see past that. But when we got back to our own classroom, hand's sanitized, spirit's energized, I looked at my 2nd graders faces, still beaming from their chick encounter. And I thought, "to be a child again..." I wanted to race back there and hold a chick in my own two hands just as I'd done in Kindergarten. I wanted to let it poop on me and I wanted not to care that it did. I couldn't go back, of course. I couldn't leave my 2nd graders unattended. After all, we had math and reading and social studies to do. But I thought about those chicks for the rest of the day. I would go back there. I would hold a chick.
And then, it was too late. I had missed my chance. The chicks had been picked up by a farmer. They had gone back to the farm. There, they would become . . . chickens.
Even though I didn't hold a chick last week, and even though I'm mad at myself for not doing it, I'm glad to have had the chick experience. It reminded me again of why I am a teacher. Don't you remember, Nana? It is moments like this that we are allowed back into that magical world of childhood when there is so much of the world to see, so many things to learn, so few stones unturned. To hold a baby chick was, for my 2nd graders, a great highlight of a still short life. For me, it was not all that important. But it once was. Oh, was it ever. And I promise to myself that next year, poop be damned, I will hold a chick. And the small child in me, the child I once was, will thank me for it.
Love, Katie
Did you ever have a class pet? I imagine your answer will be "no" because you taught older children than I. Well, I don't have a class pet either, but last week I took my 2nd graders over to the 1st grade classroom so they could meet the school's newly hatched chicks. My 2nd graders sat in a circle as the 1st grade teacher gently plucked the chicks one by one from the warmth of their glass-enclosed home and placed them in the center of the circle. The chicks wandered around timidly, reluctantly letting my 2nd graders lift them into their hands. As I watched from outside the circle, I remembered that I, too, was the proud mother of a baby chick in my own Kindergarten class so many years ago. The chicks, one for each of us, had began as warm eggs in an incubator. When the eggs hatched, out waddled fluffy yellow chicks, dizzy with the brightness of the world outside their egg and uneasy on their just-grown legs. They were so cute it was hard to believe that these sweet pastel puffs would one day grow up to be chickens. To us, they were cuddly, sunshiney balls of joy. We clambered to get our hands on them, looking forward each day to the time when we'd be allowed to play with them.
This time, my 2nd graders scrambled to find the seats closest to the chicks so that they could be first to hold them, just as I had done so many years before. But not me. This time, I didn't even hold one. In fact, I don't think I even pet one of the chicks. Perhaps it's because, as a grown-up, I worry about things like germs, something a child never worries about. Grown-ups don't dig their hands in the dirt and scoop out worms. We don't look under rocks to see if a caterpillar is hiding. We don't fingerpaint. But why? Why shouldn't we? Why didn't I hold a chick? Granted, the chicks, as cute as they were, were pooping all over the place. But the amazing thing is, the kids didn't care. They just wiped their hands on the newspaper that lay under the chicks placed there for just that reason, and scooped up another chick who would, in turn, do the same thing. Scoop up chick, chick poops, newspaper wipe, and so on. The cycle continued and the joy on their faces grew with each new chick they held.
I'm not even sure it's the getting dirty part that really kept me from picking up a chick. After all, hand sanitzer was at the ready. Instead, I think that, as adults, we sometimes stop doing the things that, as children, so amazed us. That little chick was, to me, just a chicken. It had lost that Easter holiday, stuffed animal sweetness that it had once held for me as a child. This chick would one day grow up to be someone's dinner. And, in that moment, I couldn't see past that. But when we got back to our own classroom, hand's sanitized, spirit's energized, I looked at my 2nd graders faces, still beaming from their chick encounter. And I thought, "to be a child again..." I wanted to race back there and hold a chick in my own two hands just as I'd done in Kindergarten. I wanted to let it poop on me and I wanted not to care that it did. I couldn't go back, of course. I couldn't leave my 2nd graders unattended. After all, we had math and reading and social studies to do. But I thought about those chicks for the rest of the day. I would go back there. I would hold a chick.
And then, it was too late. I had missed my chance. The chicks had been picked up by a farmer. They had gone back to the farm. There, they would become . . . chickens.
Even though I didn't hold a chick last week, and even though I'm mad at myself for not doing it, I'm glad to have had the chick experience. It reminded me again of why I am a teacher. Don't you remember, Nana? It is moments like this that we are allowed back into that magical world of childhood when there is so much of the world to see, so many things to learn, so few stones unturned. To hold a baby chick was, for my 2nd graders, a great highlight of a still short life. For me, it was not all that important. But it once was. Oh, was it ever. And I promise to myself that next year, poop be damned, I will hold a chick. And the small child in me, the child I once was, will thank me for it.
Love, Katie
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Inimitable Goddess
Dear Nana,
Last night I was looking for an old essay that I'd written a few years back because I wanted to share it with you. In doing so, I found countless older pieces of writing that I'd left unfinished. Many, I'd simply forgotten. The one I share with you today is not the one I'd originally set out to find, but it seemed just the thing you'd like to read. Can you guess the recipient of my ardor? If anyone can, it is you...
Love Affair
Your passion for her is palpable the instant you meet. You marvel at her beauty—her superlative splendor. She glitters like a diamond and moves like a lynx. The vision of her intimidates. Her complexity daunts. But you can’t get her out of your mind. You’re drive to know her is overwhelming, despite your apprehension.
You study her and begin to see that she has a dual personality—at turns frantic and calm, challenging and effortless. When you are in her midst, she can make you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt before. Then, without warning, she can embrace you and make you feel that in her arms you’ve finally found the one place in the world you truly belong. She surprises you constantly. The moment you think you’ve memorized her face, the instant that you’re sure you’ve crossed every one of her avenues and turned all of her corners, she will prove you wrong. She will show you a side of her that you’ve never noticed. And even though it has been right before your eyes, somehow up until that moment, you’d missed it.
As you begin to feel comfortable with her, as she begins to whisper some of her secrets into your ear, your uncertainties about your compatibility are alleviated. Your mind eases because you’ve begun to decipher her intricacies. They are still alive, but you no longer fear them. You, instead, are drawn to them. They become the things about her that you most revere. And then one autumn evening as you walk alone down an empty street, crunching auburn leaves beneath your feet, you stop a moment. You inhale deeply and you find yourself thinking of her. You realize that you’ve been thinking of her the entire time you’ve been walking. And, it is then, at that instant, you know you are in love.
You don’t know how she did it. Somehow she lassoed your heart, this unpredictable entity that you may never fully understand. She’s taken root in your soul and won’t let go. Her grip on you is so strong that you surrender to it immediately. You are hooked. The love affair has begun.
Together you will traverse the rivers of emotion – from agony to joy. She will exhilarate you and bring you to levels of passion that you’d only heard about, but never known. She will enchant you with her beauty and you will flaunt her to those she’s just met. She will reinvent herself before your eyes and beg you to keep up with her, and you will. At least you will try, because you want to reinvent yourself, too. That is why you came to her.
She will constantly provoke you. She will test you and dare you to give up on her. And there will be moments that you almost do. There are times when you’ll look up at her and she will seem to tower over you, a menacing face looming overhead. But there will also be times that she’ll look at you with the eyes of child, willing you to frolic beside her. And despite the never-ending fluctuations of your relationship, despite the times you’ll wish for simplicity in place of this volatility, you will cherish every moment with her – every instance, from the thrilling to the infuriating. Because this is a love affair that might not last forever. After all, most don’t.
There will probably be others in your life who come after her. Certainly there were others who came before. But no one will ever be more unforgettable – no one else will leave an impression that will endure as hers will. Because there is no one else like her in the world. You will travel miles to find another. You will cross oceans and continents to find her match, but you will not, for she has no equal.
And when it is over, if it is over, you will look back on her with a profound sense of warmth, for no matter how many times she incensed you, she charmed you more. And those are the memories, should you leave her, that you will carry inside you forever.
She is a rare and inimitable goddess. She is New York City.
Inimitable. In Merriam-Webster's Dictionary the word carries this meaning: not capable of being imitated. Matchless. And that's what New York City is, after all. There is simply no place in the world quite like it. You would know. Your love affair with New York City lasted more than 90 years. And I believe mine will, too.
Love, Katie
Last night I was looking for an old essay that I'd written a few years back because I wanted to share it with you. In doing so, I found countless older pieces of writing that I'd left unfinished. Many, I'd simply forgotten. The one I share with you today is not the one I'd originally set out to find, but it seemed just the thing you'd like to read. Can you guess the recipient of my ardor? If anyone can, it is you...
Love Affair
Your passion for her is palpable the instant you meet. You marvel at her beauty—her superlative splendor. She glitters like a diamond and moves like a lynx. The vision of her intimidates. Her complexity daunts. But you can’t get her out of your mind. You’re drive to know her is overwhelming, despite your apprehension.
You study her and begin to see that she has a dual personality—at turns frantic and calm, challenging and effortless. When you are in her midst, she can make you feel more alone than you’ve ever felt before. Then, without warning, she can embrace you and make you feel that in her arms you’ve finally found the one place in the world you truly belong. She surprises you constantly. The moment you think you’ve memorized her face, the instant that you’re sure you’ve crossed every one of her avenues and turned all of her corners, she will prove you wrong. She will show you a side of her that you’ve never noticed. And even though it has been right before your eyes, somehow up until that moment, you’d missed it.
As you begin to feel comfortable with her, as she begins to whisper some of her secrets into your ear, your uncertainties about your compatibility are alleviated. Your mind eases because you’ve begun to decipher her intricacies. They are still alive, but you no longer fear them. You, instead, are drawn to them. They become the things about her that you most revere. And then one autumn evening as you walk alone down an empty street, crunching auburn leaves beneath your feet, you stop a moment. You inhale deeply and you find yourself thinking of her. You realize that you’ve been thinking of her the entire time you’ve been walking. And, it is then, at that instant, you know you are in love.
You don’t know how she did it. Somehow she lassoed your heart, this unpredictable entity that you may never fully understand. She’s taken root in your soul and won’t let go. Her grip on you is so strong that you surrender to it immediately. You are hooked. The love affair has begun.
Together you will traverse the rivers of emotion – from agony to joy. She will exhilarate you and bring you to levels of passion that you’d only heard about, but never known. She will enchant you with her beauty and you will flaunt her to those she’s just met. She will reinvent herself before your eyes and beg you to keep up with her, and you will. At least you will try, because you want to reinvent yourself, too. That is why you came to her.
She will constantly provoke you. She will test you and dare you to give up on her. And there will be moments that you almost do. There are times when you’ll look up at her and she will seem to tower over you, a menacing face looming overhead. But there will also be times that she’ll look at you with the eyes of child, willing you to frolic beside her. And despite the never-ending fluctuations of your relationship, despite the times you’ll wish for simplicity in place of this volatility, you will cherish every moment with her – every instance, from the thrilling to the infuriating. Because this is a love affair that might not last forever. After all, most don’t.
There will probably be others in your life who come after her. Certainly there were others who came before. But no one will ever be more unforgettable – no one else will leave an impression that will endure as hers will. Because there is no one else like her in the world. You will travel miles to find another. You will cross oceans and continents to find her match, but you will not, for she has no equal.
And when it is over, if it is over, you will look back on her with a profound sense of warmth, for no matter how many times she incensed you, she charmed you more. And those are the memories, should you leave her, that you will carry inside you forever.
She is a rare and inimitable goddess. She is New York City.
Inimitable. In Merriam-Webster's Dictionary the word carries this meaning: not capable of being imitated. Matchless. And that's what New York City is, after all. There is simply no place in the world quite like it. You would know. Your love affair with New York City lasted more than 90 years. And I believe mine will, too.
Love, Katie
To Be Remembered
Dear Nana,
As you well know, being a teacher has its ups and its downs. There are days when the thought of Christmas vacation is the only thing that gets me through the day. Then there are days when my 2nd graders have me laughing all day long. But one of the best parts about being a teacher, I think, is knowing that no matter what I do in the future or where I go, I'll be remembered.
All children remember their grade school teachers. Elementary school children spend more time with their teachers than they do with anyone else, even their parents. When they move on to middle and high school with homerooms and sections and 7-period days, the time spent with individual teachers wanes. Perhaps that's why middle school and high school teachers are often less remembered. I can only remember a few of my middle and high school teacher's names and even fewer of their faces. But elementary teachers, we are a different story. We are more than teachers, instructing them in math and reading and science. We are also parents on Monday through Friday from 8 until 4. We wipe tears and gently place bandaids on scraped knees. We read our favorite stories to them and sing with them and make sure they eat their lunches. We help them tidy their things, encourage them not to give up in the face of obstacles, and listen to their hopes and dreams. We try to instill good manners and kindness and respect. We place lost teeth in plastic baggies zipped tight to ensure a safe trip home at the end of the day to be placed under a pillow.
So how will my students remember their 2nd grade year with me? They will most likely forget the order of the planets from the sun and the number of bones in the human body. They will most likely forget the words to the Harriet Tubman song and the name of their 2nd grade pen pal. What they will remember about me, I do not know. But the fact that they will remember is enough.
It is obvious from that glowing letter I shared with you a few weeks ago that Timmy Pragai remembers you. I'm sure countless others who graced your classroom desks over your decades as a teacher, still think of you fondly. Perhaps they remember your demand for precise grammar or your strong belief in good penmanship. Maybe they remember how your wore your hair. They might remember a book you read aloud to them or a trick you taught them to memorize their multiplication tables. Whatever it is that they remember, whatever image or words or ideas they've held onto and carried with them through life, you, nor I will ever know. But the simple fact of remembering means that you left your mark on the lives of all the little souls who passed through your classroom doors. And just knowing that I, too, will be remembered, that I, too, am leaving my mark a little each day, is an amazing feeling. Because to be remembered, well, isn't that what life is all about?
Love, Katie
As you well know, being a teacher has its ups and its downs. There are days when the thought of Christmas vacation is the only thing that gets me through the day. Then there are days when my 2nd graders have me laughing all day long. But one of the best parts about being a teacher, I think, is knowing that no matter what I do in the future or where I go, I'll be remembered.
All children remember their grade school teachers. Elementary school children spend more time with their teachers than they do with anyone else, even their parents. When they move on to middle and high school with homerooms and sections and 7-period days, the time spent with individual teachers wanes. Perhaps that's why middle school and high school teachers are often less remembered. I can only remember a few of my middle and high school teacher's names and even fewer of their faces. But elementary teachers, we are a different story. We are more than teachers, instructing them in math and reading and science. We are also parents on Monday through Friday from 8 until 4. We wipe tears and gently place bandaids on scraped knees. We read our favorite stories to them and sing with them and make sure they eat their lunches. We help them tidy their things, encourage them not to give up in the face of obstacles, and listen to their hopes and dreams. We try to instill good manners and kindness and respect. We place lost teeth in plastic baggies zipped tight to ensure a safe trip home at the end of the day to be placed under a pillow.
So how will my students remember their 2nd grade year with me? They will most likely forget the order of the planets from the sun and the number of bones in the human body. They will most likely forget the words to the Harriet Tubman song and the name of their 2nd grade pen pal. What they will remember about me, I do not know. But the fact that they will remember is enough.
It is obvious from that glowing letter I shared with you a few weeks ago that Timmy Pragai remembers you. I'm sure countless others who graced your classroom desks over your decades as a teacher, still think of you fondly. Perhaps they remember your demand for precise grammar or your strong belief in good penmanship. Maybe they remember how your wore your hair. They might remember a book you read aloud to them or a trick you taught them to memorize their multiplication tables. Whatever it is that they remember, whatever image or words or ideas they've held onto and carried with them through life, you, nor I will ever know. But the simple fact of remembering means that you left your mark on the lives of all the little souls who passed through your classroom doors. And just knowing that I, too, will be remembered, that I, too, am leaving my mark a little each day, is an amazing feeling. Because to be remembered, well, isn't that what life is all about?
Love, Katie
Monday, October 15, 2007
Delicious Secrets
Dear Nana,
At school I will soon begin to teach my students how to write a "friendly letter." And as I plan the unit, one that I've taught for the last four years but am always hoping to enliven, I feel slightly hopeless. It is not that I feel unsuited to teach the unit. It is that I will teach my seven and eight year olds a skill that they will most surely never use once given the choice. They will not pen letters to friends when they are away at college some day. They will not spray envelopes with perfume and write in longhand to their sweetheart. They will not anxiously wait by the mailbox each day to see if their sweetheart has written back. People simply don't write letters anymore. It's a dying artform. An artform. That's what it was. And you and Grandpa Saul had it in spades.
In my letters to you, I will share some letters that you and Grandpa wrote to one another; letters that I found a few years ago. Letters through which I've gotten to know you as a young woman in love. Letters through which I've gotten to know Grandpa since we never had the chance to meet. I am quite certain, although you might blush at times, you will enjoy them. This is the first of hundreds....
Class 7B3
June 1, 1931
My Precious, (my heart thumps as I write it - but there's nothing like a good little heart thump to keep one's spirits up.)
Darling, what can I say on paper, that I haven't already made evident in person? You must know how perfectly glorious our week-end was. The spontaneity and unexpectedness with which everything happened added all the more interest (although how much more interest do I need, other than just being with you?) Even the closing of our week-end seemed to have just "happened". It rained, so I went to get you an umbrella, but just as our minds were made up to that, fate decided that that was much too ordinary a good-night for two such unusual people, so before we knew it you were sleeping over at my house. Wasn't that itself a glorious state of affairs? Then breakfast to-gether, and even our morning tete-a-tete didn't end as expected, that is the call for school. Saul, dear, our affair, itself, was so unexpected, and everything since that impromptu dinner at my house on April 7, so delightfully surprising, that all I can do is hope that all our forthcoming surprises together, may hold as much joy for both of us. Everything is a joy to both, isn't it? I hope so, for unless it is mutual, the whole thing is empty. But there, darling, I deserve a spanking for even questioning the fact that all between us is "50/50". Otherwise how could everything we do to-gether be so whole-hearted, huh? Of course.
Now, honey, I'll return to this poor commonplace world of ours. Again I have the 7th & 8th yr. classes. My room is right across the hall from Mr. Weiss's and as he walked thru the hall before, he saw me writing at my desk, but I'll bet he couldn't possibly have the slightest conception of whom I was writing to, nor the spririt behind my writing. Dearest, it's wonderful keeping so many delicious secrets between only our very selves.
Tell me truthfully now, sweet, did you sleep well last night for if it inconveniences you in anyway I wouldn't have you do it again, for the world. How did you get to work this morning - on time, in good condition, physically, mentally, and spiritually?
Darling, I've written so steadily, so fluently and so sincerely that I am actually fatigued, but what a delicious worn-out feeling! Gee, really, I couldn't possibly think, say, or write another word.
Your Treasure, Henny
Perhaps this was the first letter you ever wrote to the man who would one day become your husband. You were just a few weeks shy of 22 years old. And if it weren't for this letter, this hand-written, lovingly penned, starkly honest letter, I would never know about the beautiful night you spent with Grandpa Saul on May 31, 1931. I would never know of your giddiness as you snuck a letter to your sweetheart from your teacher's desk when you were supposed to be substitute teaching.
People write emails. We save them in cyberspace, floating in the air somewhere, untouchable and unmemorable. But this, your letter, will live. Your letter tells of a time when people could write to the point of emotional exhaustion as you did. You probably walked to the post office afterschool, giddy with the thought that you would soon send your words out into the world. Perhaps you knew that even though the recipient lived in the same city in a nearby neighborhood, he would anxiously await the postman's delivery and write just as feverish a letter in return. It saddens me that my students will probably never know this feeling, this art. But I will try to teach them so that perhaps one of them some day, will choose stationery over email, a stamp over a click of the mouse, anticipation instead of instant gratification. And I thank you for reminding me what a treasure simple, honest words can be.
Love, Katie
At school I will soon begin to teach my students how to write a "friendly letter." And as I plan the unit, one that I've taught for the last four years but am always hoping to enliven, I feel slightly hopeless. It is not that I feel unsuited to teach the unit. It is that I will teach my seven and eight year olds a skill that they will most surely never use once given the choice. They will not pen letters to friends when they are away at college some day. They will not spray envelopes with perfume and write in longhand to their sweetheart. They will not anxiously wait by the mailbox each day to see if their sweetheart has written back. People simply don't write letters anymore. It's a dying artform. An artform. That's what it was. And you and Grandpa Saul had it in spades.
In my letters to you, I will share some letters that you and Grandpa wrote to one another; letters that I found a few years ago. Letters through which I've gotten to know you as a young woman in love. Letters through which I've gotten to know Grandpa since we never had the chance to meet. I am quite certain, although you might blush at times, you will enjoy them. This is the first of hundreds....
Class 7B3
June 1, 1931
My Precious, (my heart thumps as I write it - but there's nothing like a good little heart thump to keep one's spirits up.)
Darling, what can I say on paper, that I haven't already made evident in person? You must know how perfectly glorious our week-end was. The spontaneity and unexpectedness with which everything happened added all the more interest (although how much more interest do I need, other than just being with you?) Even the closing of our week-end seemed to have just "happened". It rained, so I went to get you an umbrella, but just as our minds were made up to that, fate decided that that was much too ordinary a good-night for two such unusual people, so before we knew it you were sleeping over at my house. Wasn't that itself a glorious state of affairs? Then breakfast to-gether, and even our morning tete-a-tete didn't end as expected, that is the call for school. Saul, dear, our affair, itself, was so unexpected, and everything since that impromptu dinner at my house on April 7, so delightfully surprising, that all I can do is hope that all our forthcoming surprises together, may hold as much joy for both of us. Everything is a joy to both, isn't it? I hope so, for unless it is mutual, the whole thing is empty. But there, darling, I deserve a spanking for even questioning the fact that all between us is "50/50". Otherwise how could everything we do to-gether be so whole-hearted, huh? Of course.
Now, honey, I'll return to this poor commonplace world of ours. Again I have the 7th & 8th yr. classes. My room is right across the hall from Mr. Weiss's and as he walked thru the hall before, he saw me writing at my desk, but I'll bet he couldn't possibly have the slightest conception of whom I was writing to, nor the spririt behind my writing. Dearest, it's wonderful keeping so many delicious secrets between only our very selves.
Tell me truthfully now, sweet, did you sleep well last night for if it inconveniences you in anyway I wouldn't have you do it again, for the world. How did you get to work this morning - on time, in good condition, physically, mentally, and spiritually?
Darling, I've written so steadily, so fluently and so sincerely that I am actually fatigued, but what a delicious worn-out feeling! Gee, really, I couldn't possibly think, say, or write another word.
Your Treasure, Henny
Perhaps this was the first letter you ever wrote to the man who would one day become your husband. You were just a few weeks shy of 22 years old. And if it weren't for this letter, this hand-written, lovingly penned, starkly honest letter, I would never know about the beautiful night you spent with Grandpa Saul on May 31, 1931. I would never know of your giddiness as you snuck a letter to your sweetheart from your teacher's desk when you were supposed to be substitute teaching.
People write emails. We save them in cyberspace, floating in the air somewhere, untouchable and unmemorable. But this, your letter, will live. Your letter tells of a time when people could write to the point of emotional exhaustion as you did. You probably walked to the post office afterschool, giddy with the thought that you would soon send your words out into the world. Perhaps you knew that even though the recipient lived in the same city in a nearby neighborhood, he would anxiously await the postman's delivery and write just as feverish a letter in return. It saddens me that my students will probably never know this feeling, this art. But I will try to teach them so that perhaps one of them some day, will choose stationery over email, a stamp over a click of the mouse, anticipation instead of instant gratification. And I thank you for reminding me what a treasure simple, honest words can be.
Love, Katie
Saturday, October 6, 2007
My New York
Dear Nana,
A few evenings ago I stood in front of my building on East 80th street and watched a family across the road as they stood in their New York City version of a front yard. Their townhouse has a small front patio, the closest that a New York City home can get to having a yard in the front, albeit concrete and gated and no more than 100 square feet. (They, no doubt, have a roof garden and perhaps a back yard, hidden from the likes of me and other passersby not so fortunate to have anything resembling outdoor space.)
The father and mother and their two young girls, both under the age of four, frolicked in their "front yard" admiring their new Halloween decorations - big, billowly balloons in the shapes of an eerie tree, headstones, skulls, and pumpkins. (It sounds a bit macabre, but it isn't at all. The puffiness of the balloon formations somehow softens the effect of a graveyard on one's street.) As I watched the little girls gleefully poking their new decorations, it occured to me that everyone who lives here has a different New York. The New York that these girls will grow up in will, in all likelihood, be much different than my New York. Theirs will include trips to Barney's for new patent leather shoes and school clothes, rigorous private school educations in which colleges are chosen and sought after before puberty, birthday parties to rival weddings, and countless trips in sleek Lincoln Continentals to avoid the pedestrian nature of the subway.
Whether or not I aspire to be like or unlike these people is unimportant. I simply highlight them here to make the point that every New Yorker's New York is individual. Your New York city began in Brooklyn during the heyday of the Brooklyn Dodgers when you lived within walking distance of Ebbets Field in a Flatbush that was a different universe than the Flatbush that exists now. Dad has told me that he could hear the roar of the crowd from his bedroom on warm summer nights as they cheered on Jackie Robinson, his childhood hero. Your New York later became the Upper East Side where you lived and worked as a teacher at PS 6 and Grandpa ran a bookstore on Madison Avenue. But I never knew you in that New York. I wasn't alive yet. Your New York, the one that I grew up hearing about, was a one-bedroom apartment on East End Avenue. When we visited you'd take us on walks by the East River and a stroll through Carl Schurz park. Your New York was the Metropolitan Opera house, Broadway matinees, and weekly movies with your best friend Beatrice. Your New York was dinner at Ottomanelli's where they had a delicious "steak" burger, long walks in your neighborhood, trips to the "market", and the New York Times in a chair by the window. (As I write this, your old newspaper stand that always held your Times sits beside my desk. It has been reincarnated as a music book holder containing Jim's guitar practice books. He's getting quite good I might add!)
My New York, although quite different from yours, intersects it in many places. I live, as you know, only a few blocks from where you lived, so my paths of today cross your paths of yesterday quite frequently. I go on runs by the East River often, passing your apartment and waving hello. PS 6 is around the corner. Ottomanelli's is just a ten-minute walk away.
And while my New York and your New York have similarities, my New York is, well, mine. Just as yours was yours. My New York is a small apartment on 80th Street, only steps away but miles apart from the neighbors across the street and their perfectly pruned windowboxes. My New York is the pub where Jim has worked for the last 8 years and where I first met him in 2001. My New York is walks and runs and picnics and Sunday Times crossword puzzles in Central Park. My New York is a glass of wine (or two or three) at a sidewalk cafe with a friend on an unseasonably warm October night. My New York is East Harlem where I go each weekday to teach in a wonderful little school that is small enough to feel like family. My New York is trips by subway downtown (and I mean below 42nd Street, Nana . . . I once asked you about 14th Street and you told me you hadn't been below 42nd Street in 30 years) where Jim and I wend our way through smaller streets and visit friends who live in the neighborhoods. My New York is running errands, something I absolutely love to do. Seriously. Because in New York it's just so easy! Everything is right nearby and I get absurdly satisfied when I efficiently map out my route to grocery store, bank, drug store, and home again.
And my New York just like your New York, is, quite simply, the most magnificent place in the world. When I was young and you visited us in Michigan, you would talk of your New York and it planted a seed in me. I wouldn't know it for years to come, but I would go there someday and I would live in the "city," a word that I thought belonged only to New York because you called it "the city" in such a way that it seemed like the only city in the world.
So here I am writing to you, Nana, from my New York which is no better or worse than anyone else's New York. Just different. And that's what makes New York City so unparalleled. Because on one block or on one subway or on one crosstown bus, one can find countless different New Yorks. And yet all of us with our uniquely individual New Yorks, have one thing in common. We adore it. And that, perhaps, is why, despite the differences between so many of us, New York continues to be "the city". It is a place where everyone fits in. It is a place that even we who have lived her for ten, twenty, fifty years, keep rediscovering and molding for our own.
As E.B. White wrote of New Yorkers: "although we have lived in New York . . . the place never seems anything but slightly incredible and we go along with our mouth open and face unbuttoned." My New York is more than slightly incredible to me, even in it's simplicity. And I have you to thank for planting that seed in me so many years ago, Nana. Here's to the next time our New Yorks cross paths.
Love, Katie
A few evenings ago I stood in front of my building on East 80th street and watched a family across the road as they stood in their New York City version of a front yard. Their townhouse has a small front patio, the closest that a New York City home can get to having a yard in the front, albeit concrete and gated and no more than 100 square feet. (They, no doubt, have a roof garden and perhaps a back yard, hidden from the likes of me and other passersby not so fortunate to have anything resembling outdoor space.)
The father and mother and their two young girls, both under the age of four, frolicked in their "front yard" admiring their new Halloween decorations - big, billowly balloons in the shapes of an eerie tree, headstones, skulls, and pumpkins. (It sounds a bit macabre, but it isn't at all. The puffiness of the balloon formations somehow softens the effect of a graveyard on one's street.) As I watched the little girls gleefully poking their new decorations, it occured to me that everyone who lives here has a different New York. The New York that these girls will grow up in will, in all likelihood, be much different than my New York. Theirs will include trips to Barney's for new patent leather shoes and school clothes, rigorous private school educations in which colleges are chosen and sought after before puberty, birthday parties to rival weddings, and countless trips in sleek Lincoln Continentals to avoid the pedestrian nature of the subway.
Whether or not I aspire to be like or unlike these people is unimportant. I simply highlight them here to make the point that every New Yorker's New York is individual. Your New York city began in Brooklyn during the heyday of the Brooklyn Dodgers when you lived within walking distance of Ebbets Field in a Flatbush that was a different universe than the Flatbush that exists now. Dad has told me that he could hear the roar of the crowd from his bedroom on warm summer nights as they cheered on Jackie Robinson, his childhood hero. Your New York later became the Upper East Side where you lived and worked as a teacher at PS 6 and Grandpa ran a bookstore on Madison Avenue. But I never knew you in that New York. I wasn't alive yet. Your New York, the one that I grew up hearing about, was a one-bedroom apartment on East End Avenue. When we visited you'd take us on walks by the East River and a stroll through Carl Schurz park. Your New York was the Metropolitan Opera house, Broadway matinees, and weekly movies with your best friend Beatrice. Your New York was dinner at Ottomanelli's where they had a delicious "steak" burger, long walks in your neighborhood, trips to the "market", and the New York Times in a chair by the window. (As I write this, your old newspaper stand that always held your Times sits beside my desk. It has been reincarnated as a music book holder containing Jim's guitar practice books. He's getting quite good I might add!)
My New York, although quite different from yours, intersects it in many places. I live, as you know, only a few blocks from where you lived, so my paths of today cross your paths of yesterday quite frequently. I go on runs by the East River often, passing your apartment and waving hello. PS 6 is around the corner. Ottomanelli's is just a ten-minute walk away.
And while my New York and your New York have similarities, my New York is, well, mine. Just as yours was yours. My New York is a small apartment on 80th Street, only steps away but miles apart from the neighbors across the street and their perfectly pruned windowboxes. My New York is the pub where Jim has worked for the last 8 years and where I first met him in 2001. My New York is walks and runs and picnics and Sunday Times crossword puzzles in Central Park. My New York is a glass of wine (or two or three) at a sidewalk cafe with a friend on an unseasonably warm October night. My New York is East Harlem where I go each weekday to teach in a wonderful little school that is small enough to feel like family. My New York is trips by subway downtown (and I mean below 42nd Street, Nana . . . I once asked you about 14th Street and you told me you hadn't been below 42nd Street in 30 years) where Jim and I wend our way through smaller streets and visit friends who live in the neighborhoods. My New York is running errands, something I absolutely love to do. Seriously. Because in New York it's just so easy! Everything is right nearby and I get absurdly satisfied when I efficiently map out my route to grocery store, bank, drug store, and home again.
And my New York just like your New York, is, quite simply, the most magnificent place in the world. When I was young and you visited us in Michigan, you would talk of your New York and it planted a seed in me. I wouldn't know it for years to come, but I would go there someday and I would live in the "city," a word that I thought belonged only to New York because you called it "the city" in such a way that it seemed like the only city in the world.
So here I am writing to you, Nana, from my New York which is no better or worse than anyone else's New York. Just different. And that's what makes New York City so unparalleled. Because on one block or on one subway or on one crosstown bus, one can find countless different New Yorks. And yet all of us with our uniquely individual New Yorks, have one thing in common. We adore it. And that, perhaps, is why, despite the differences between so many of us, New York continues to be "the city". It is a place where everyone fits in. It is a place that even we who have lived her for ten, twenty, fifty years, keep rediscovering and molding for our own.
As E.B. White wrote of New Yorkers: "although we have lived in New York . . . the place never seems anything but slightly incredible and we go along with our mouth open and face unbuttoned." My New York is more than slightly incredible to me, even in it's simplicity. And I have you to thank for planting that seed in me so many years ago, Nana. Here's to the next time our New Yorks cross paths.
Love, Katie
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
What Became of Timmy
Dear Nana,
This will be a letter within a letter. Sort of like how the musical The Producers is a play within a play, only not as funny and without the showtunes.
Today I was looking through a scrapbook that I made a while back. It contains some old photographs of you and Grandpa from your years of courting, as well as some of your old dance cards from the 1920s. But the most recent bit of history in the scrapbook is a letter written to you on June 29, 1961, four days past your 52nd birthday. I'd read the letter long ago and it had moved me. But I wasn't a teacher then. Now the letter, well, it simply blew me away. It reads as follows:
Dear Mrs. Shullman,
During these last two terms, since our Timmy joined your 5th grade, we had indeed many occasions to address short notes to you! Maybe too many. But none was quite like this one.
Now we have to say Good Bye to you and to try to express to you our feeling of gratitude for the understanding, patience, and love you always had for Timmy.
That these two school terms turned out to be such a happy and rewarding time for Timmy is first of all due to your efforts and devotions and we would like you to know how reassuring it is for parents to be able to cooperate with a person like you in the education of their child.
As a small and just symbolic token of our feeling of thanks we send to you a little Mediterranean jar, - in Israel, water and the preservation of it, stand for the future and life itself. So let us wish you many, many years of fruitful and rewarding work in this most important of all fields, - the bringing up of a worthy youth!
Thank you for the pleasure of working with you! Wishing you a happy and restful summer-vacation, for yourself and your family.
We remain sincerely yours,
D. and M. Pragai
After reading this letter that unabashedly applauds your work as a teacher, I was tempted to look up Mr. and Mrs. Pragai to see if they still live at 345 Riverside Drive. I wonder how Timmy turned out. No doubt, because of his time with you, he turned out well.
Timmy must have begun his year with you as a difficult child. I know the type. I have countless Timmys in my class now and have had many over the years. But never have I received such a heartfelt note. Words, yes. A handshake and a thank you, yes. A gift card to Starbucks, yes. But to take the time to write a letter so powerful ... well, it doesn't seem to be the thing that people do anymore. The note, typed on thin stationary paper, was lovingly folded into an envelope and mailed to you at your home. The words in the note were carefully chosen, as well as the accompanying gift of the jar with it's message of good fortune and honest hope for your future.
I may never get a note like this from a parent. In fact, I'm quite sure of it. In this day and age, people are too busy to write letters. Why use a pen and paper? Why use a stamp? The closest thing one gets to a letter nowadays is a hastily written email, often unsigned, and more often unmemorable. But this one, this one from Timmy's parents, has survived. And it will continue to survive as a testament to your commitment to teaching and the heart with which you went to work each day.
We rarely spoke of your job as a teacher, but the letter from the Pragais says it all. I know, now, what kind of teacher you were. And I hope to be the same kind. I hope that someday I touch a child's life just as you touched Timmy's. And that Mediterranean jar, whatever became of it, I hope it gave you all that Pragai's hoped it would.
Love, Katie
This will be a letter within a letter. Sort of like how the musical The Producers is a play within a play, only not as funny and without the showtunes.
Today I was looking through a scrapbook that I made a while back. It contains some old photographs of you and Grandpa from your years of courting, as well as some of your old dance cards from the 1920s. But the most recent bit of history in the scrapbook is a letter written to you on June 29, 1961, four days past your 52nd birthday. I'd read the letter long ago and it had moved me. But I wasn't a teacher then. Now the letter, well, it simply blew me away. It reads as follows:
Dear Mrs. Shullman,
During these last two terms, since our Timmy joined your 5th grade, we had indeed many occasions to address short notes to you! Maybe too many. But none was quite like this one.
Now we have to say Good Bye to you and to try to express to you our feeling of gratitude for the understanding, patience, and love you always had for Timmy.
That these two school terms turned out to be such a happy and rewarding time for Timmy is first of all due to your efforts and devotions and we would like you to know how reassuring it is for parents to be able to cooperate with a person like you in the education of their child.
As a small and just symbolic token of our feeling of thanks we send to you a little Mediterranean jar, - in Israel, water and the preservation of it, stand for the future and life itself. So let us wish you many, many years of fruitful and rewarding work in this most important of all fields, - the bringing up of a worthy youth!
Thank you for the pleasure of working with you! Wishing you a happy and restful summer-vacation, for yourself and your family.
We remain sincerely yours,
D. and M. Pragai
After reading this letter that unabashedly applauds your work as a teacher, I was tempted to look up Mr. and Mrs. Pragai to see if they still live at 345 Riverside Drive. I wonder how Timmy turned out. No doubt, because of his time with you, he turned out well.
Timmy must have begun his year with you as a difficult child. I know the type. I have countless Timmys in my class now and have had many over the years. But never have I received such a heartfelt note. Words, yes. A handshake and a thank you, yes. A gift card to Starbucks, yes. But to take the time to write a letter so powerful ... well, it doesn't seem to be the thing that people do anymore. The note, typed on thin stationary paper, was lovingly folded into an envelope and mailed to you at your home. The words in the note were carefully chosen, as well as the accompanying gift of the jar with it's message of good fortune and honest hope for your future.
I may never get a note like this from a parent. In fact, I'm quite sure of it. In this day and age, people are too busy to write letters. Why use a pen and paper? Why use a stamp? The closest thing one gets to a letter nowadays is a hastily written email, often unsigned, and more often unmemorable. But this one, this one from Timmy's parents, has survived. And it will continue to survive as a testament to your commitment to teaching and the heart with which you went to work each day.
We rarely spoke of your job as a teacher, but the letter from the Pragais says it all. I know, now, what kind of teacher you were. And I hope to be the same kind. I hope that someday I touch a child's life just as you touched Timmy's. And that Mediterranean jar, whatever became of it, I hope it gave you all that Pragai's hoped it would.
Love, Katie
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Autumn in New York
Dear Nana,
It's one of those perfect New York City days in early fall. As I sit at my computer and look out the window onto Third Avenue, I watch the first red, brown, and orange victims of fall's coming frolic with one another on the ground, lifted by the wind and tossed along the concrete. The sky a pristine blue, unblemished by a single cloud. Cool air sneaks into the open window and reminds me that winter coats and scarves are not so long off.
You remember these kinds of days, don't you? Days perfect for strolling in Manhattan. Days made for a jaunt by the East River, nostrils flared as you suck in the glorious smell of leaves and smokiness and a touch of faroff ocean air. Days where there is no better place in the world to be but New York City.
It is Saturday afternoon, the last Saturday in September. I'm going to head out soon, so this letter will be a short one. But perhaps I'll walk by your old apartment as I often do. I'll look up at your 6th floor window on East End Avenue and I'll bet, if I look hard enough, I might just see you there, head leaning out the open dining room window, sun streaming onto your face, eyes sparkling, mouth curled up in the most genuine smile. You'll wave down to me on the sidewalk as you always did and, together we will take a deep breathe, inhaling the sweet and smoky scent of autumn in New York.
Love, Katie
It's one of those perfect New York City days in early fall. As I sit at my computer and look out the window onto Third Avenue, I watch the first red, brown, and orange victims of fall's coming frolic with one another on the ground, lifted by the wind and tossed along the concrete. The sky a pristine blue, unblemished by a single cloud. Cool air sneaks into the open window and reminds me that winter coats and scarves are not so long off.
You remember these kinds of days, don't you? Days perfect for strolling in Manhattan. Days made for a jaunt by the East River, nostrils flared as you suck in the glorious smell of leaves and smokiness and a touch of faroff ocean air. Days where there is no better place in the world to be but New York City.
It is Saturday afternoon, the last Saturday in September. I'm going to head out soon, so this letter will be a short one. But perhaps I'll walk by your old apartment as I often do. I'll look up at your 6th floor window on East End Avenue and I'll bet, if I look hard enough, I might just see you there, head leaning out the open dining room window, sun streaming onto your face, eyes sparkling, mouth curled up in the most genuine smile. You'll wave down to me on the sidewalk as you always did and, together we will take a deep breathe, inhaling the sweet and smoky scent of autumn in New York.
Love, Katie
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
I Am a Teacher, Too
Dear Nana,
Did I ever tell you I became a teacher? I don't think that I did. Well, to what I hope is your delight, I followed in your footsteps.
I'm not sure what grade you taught. For some reason, 5th grade rings a bell, but I can't be sure. I, on the other hand, teach 2nd grade -- seven and eight year olds. I don't remember too much about me at that age, but, now as a teacher, I wish I did. I wonder if I lit up at the sight of my teacher's face when she opened the door to welcome me into the classroom each day, my eyes shining as if I'd just stumbled across Santa Claus or a Princess Fairy. Did I call her name excitedly and wave vigorously when I happened to see her on the road or in the school parking lot even if I'd only just left her side mere minutes before? Did I draw her pictures of rainbows and flowers on the weekends accompanied by words that could be considered nothing short of a love note?
These shows of affection are what makes teaching so amazing to me. Of course there's more important things. The overwhelming satisfaction of watching a struggling student finally "get it." The fulfillment of a good lesson. Taking a step back to admire a bulletin board adorned with student work. Listening to them successfully sound out a new and difficult word. Standing beside them as they give a class presentation and encouraging them to speak loud and proud.
And then there are the challenges. The daily internal battle to maintain patience and calm when the crayons have spilled for the seventh time and three children are crying at once. The urge to scream at them to just-stop-talking-for-one-second and the ability to stifle that urge. Feigning compassion to the tattle-tale who believes that the world is against him and still being able to nod with understanding.
But beyond the pat-myself-on-the-back moments and the gritting-my-teeth moments, it is their innocence and their unadulterated adoration for me that keeps me coming back.
Now, I do not, for a second, believe that my students love me because I'm me. No. It's much simpler than that. They love me because I am their teacher. In a time when the teaching profession is still not given the credit nor the respect that it deserves, children are quite possibly the only people who hold teachers in high esteem. Teachers are, to them, celebrities and superheroes, princes and princesses. But we do not have special powers or gifts. Instead, we have knowledge, from the simple to the complex . . . and we bestow it upon them, a little bit at a time. We teach them about planets and numbers and animals and stories and they drink it all in. Their thirst is never quenched. If it were, we'd stop teaching. And if we stopped teaching, we, too, would stop learning. And without learning life is, well, it isn't really life at all.
I'm not sure how much things have changed since you were a teacher so many years ago. I know that you must have loved it though. I know that you wouldn't do anything for so many years that you didn't love. And I bet your students adored you just as mine do me. I bet when you greeted them each morning on their way into school and you smiled at them they felt just as safe and loved and important as you made me feel when I was a little girl. And maybe, without really even knowing it, that's why I became a teacher, too.
Love, Katie
Did I ever tell you I became a teacher? I don't think that I did. Well, to what I hope is your delight, I followed in your footsteps.
I'm not sure what grade you taught. For some reason, 5th grade rings a bell, but I can't be sure. I, on the other hand, teach 2nd grade -- seven and eight year olds. I don't remember too much about me at that age, but, now as a teacher, I wish I did. I wonder if I lit up at the sight of my teacher's face when she opened the door to welcome me into the classroom each day, my eyes shining as if I'd just stumbled across Santa Claus or a Princess Fairy. Did I call her name excitedly and wave vigorously when I happened to see her on the road or in the school parking lot even if I'd only just left her side mere minutes before? Did I draw her pictures of rainbows and flowers on the weekends accompanied by words that could be considered nothing short of a love note?
These shows of affection are what makes teaching so amazing to me. Of course there's more important things. The overwhelming satisfaction of watching a struggling student finally "get it." The fulfillment of a good lesson. Taking a step back to admire a bulletin board adorned with student work. Listening to them successfully sound out a new and difficult word. Standing beside them as they give a class presentation and encouraging them to speak loud and proud.
And then there are the challenges. The daily internal battle to maintain patience and calm when the crayons have spilled for the seventh time and three children are crying at once. The urge to scream at them to just-stop-talking-for-one-second and the ability to stifle that urge. Feigning compassion to the tattle-tale who believes that the world is against him and still being able to nod with understanding.
But beyond the pat-myself-on-the-back moments and the gritting-my-teeth moments, it is their innocence and their unadulterated adoration for me that keeps me coming back.
Now, I do not, for a second, believe that my students love me because I'm me. No. It's much simpler than that. They love me because I am their teacher. In a time when the teaching profession is still not given the credit nor the respect that it deserves, children are quite possibly the only people who hold teachers in high esteem. Teachers are, to them, celebrities and superheroes, princes and princesses. But we do not have special powers or gifts. Instead, we have knowledge, from the simple to the complex . . . and we bestow it upon them, a little bit at a time. We teach them about planets and numbers and animals and stories and they drink it all in. Their thirst is never quenched. If it were, we'd stop teaching. And if we stopped teaching, we, too, would stop learning. And without learning life is, well, it isn't really life at all.
I'm not sure how much things have changed since you were a teacher so many years ago. I know that you must have loved it though. I know that you wouldn't do anything for so many years that you didn't love. And I bet your students adored you just as mine do me. I bet when you greeted them each morning on their way into school and you smiled at them they felt just as safe and loved and important as you made me feel when I was a little girl. And maybe, without really even knowing it, that's why I became a teacher, too.
Love, Katie
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)