Dear Nana,
When you were born in 1909, slavery was less than 50 years past. The abonimation that was slavery, while not fresh in the minds of Americans, lived on in the memories of your parents and grandparents as a stark reality. As you grew up in New York City during World War I, children played "Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo" and caught an "n" word by the toe, rather than the tiger that requires capture among today's youth. But that was, contemptibly, the way the world was.
As you reached adulthood and middle age, things began to change. You turned up the radio to listen to a young black preacher who spoke of change and hope. You watched on a grainy black and white set as a president challenged you to ask what you could do for your country and not the other way around. You were stunned in 1968 when in April and later in June two men were gunned down for dreaming of a country where a water fountain didn't require labeling and the school in which you taught would gladly open its doors to any child.
But despite these devastating drawbacks, your country forged ahead, making strides toward righting the greatest wrong in its storied past. Over the next 40 years, as the 20th century came to a close, you having lived through nearly all 100 years of it, you began to see a country that, although often meeting failure, attempted to live up to its once-false creed that all people are created equal.
And now, 99 years after you were born, an amazing thing has happened. When Barack Obama was elected to President of the United States last Tuesday, something shifted. I wish you'd been here to see it.
The election days in my own history have proved to be emotionless, humdrum affairs. I seemed to always be choosing the lesser of two very similar evils. But not this year. On election day the energy in the air was palpable. New York, as you know, nearly always goes Democrat, a single vote seemingly frivolous because the conclusion is inevitable, the end of the story known because the last page of the book has already been read. But despite this, people lined up to vote in droves. They wanted to be a part of history, for better or for worse. Something had shifted.
"Better" won out this time and the next day as I walked to school, in a slight daze, tired from a late night of reveling in the idea that I would always remember this moment, that children and grandchildren would one day ask, "Where were you on November 4, 2008?" I was glad that I now had a positive historical moment to add to my own life's story. That my "where were you when" questions would not be limited to the shadow that was cast by the last terrible lived-through moment in 2001. Despite my sleepiness, I was giddy with expectation. I couldn't wait to see my kids in Harlem, to celebrate with them this hard-won battle that their ancestors had been fighting for centuries. As I boarded the subway for 125th Street, I scanned the faces of those around me. People were smiling. They were making eye contact. There was a spring in their step rarely, if ever, found at 7:30 am. Something had shifted.
A special assembly was called at school. In most schools, I imagine, an assembly about election results would have to remain uncommitted to a party or a candidate. In most schools, an assembly would be informational. Results would be discussed, opinions about and experiences with the democratic process would be reflected upon. Children would return to their classrooms in much the same fashion as any other day of the year. But not at the Storefront. There, it was a celebration. Pure and unadulterated. I led my 2nd graders into the Common Room. "Ain't No Stopping Us Now" blasted through the room and children from 4-year-olds to 14-year-olds, danced and sang along to this song with hopeful lyrics written nearly 30 years ago, lyrics that dreamed of a moment that had finally come. A five year old slapped hands with her classmate and swayed to the voice crooning through the disco beats calling "There've been so many things that have held us down
But now it looks like things are finally comin' around." Something had shifted. This disco song, no longer just a throwback to a time of bell bottoms and afros and white suits with butterfly collars, but an anthem to progress.
A spontaneous clap, clap, clap-clap-clap-clap, OBAMA, clap, clap-clap-clap-clap, OBAMA erupted in the room as we took our seats. And I sat back against the wall, an insider in this community, but really an outsider, at least on this day, knowing full well that despite my delight at the previous night's outcome, this moment, this celebration, could never hold the kind of meaning for me as it did for the children and parents and teachers in that room for whom Barack Obama didn't just offer the hope of change for the country but the hope of delivery from the past. I looked at the sea of wide-eyed faces as they listened to parents and teachers and fellow students make tearful "shout-outs" about Barack Obama and knew that these children would get to grow up in a world that their parents never had the chance to. They would grow up in a world in which their parents and teachers could tell them they could be anything they wanted to be when they grew up. Anything. And for the first time, we would be telling the truth. They would grow up in a world where the words "I have a dream" would no longer be the limit. Something had shifted and dreams could now be replaced with "yes we cans". Those dreams could become realities, surpassing former limits. They would grow up in a world that might actually be limitless.
Something has shifted. It hasn't shifted far enough or wide enough or long enough to erase or even muffle the echo of the past. It has probably barely been felt in the many places where racism refuses to lose it's grip. It will take more moments like November 4 and more people like Barack Obama. It will take countless dreamers and believers and "yes we can"ners. For me to truly say, to truly think that this election will bring the kind of sweeping changes that my school assembly had conjured in my mind, would be naive. I know that we still live in a world full of bias and uneven privelege that will take more than a single president to unravel. But for now, something has shifted. Something has shifted and I felt it.
Love, Katie
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Genetic Predisposition
Dear Nana,
When you arrived from New York City to our house in Michigan for each of your twice-yearly visits, I would sit on one of the twin beds in the guest room and watch you unpack. Your clothes were always folded perfectly, as pin straight and ironed flat as one might see in a military school drawer. Your delicates and finer clothes were wrapped in slightly crinkled tissue paper that had undoubtedly been recycled from a Lord & Taylor’s box or some other such gift packaging and then re-recycled trip after trip. As you unwrapped each article of clothing you would hang it in the closet or place it neatly into one of the dressing table drawers, according to its need. Skirts, slacks, and blouses were hung in the closet an inch or so apart to avoid wrinkling. Sweaters and underthings were stacked or placed side by side in a drawer. The tissue paper was neatly folded and placed into the drawer next to the stockings to be used once again when it was time to pack and return to New York City.
On each of your visits, I watched this process of unpacking and wondered why on Earth someone would go to all that trouble just to avoid a wrinkle. And yet, there was something exciting about watching you unpack. You had turned a mundane activity into something more. The tissue paper held surprises, as if each cashmere sweater or silk blouse was a gift unwrapped and set eyes upon for the first time.
When you visited, you kept the guest room in pristine condition at all times. You made the bed every morning, your book was perfectly aligned on the night table, and the towels were hung carefully. I would mimic you and try to make my own bedroom a picture of perfection during her visits, hoping you’d walk by and comment on my ability to keep a tidy room. Tidiness was a virtue that ranked at the top of your list, just above good grammar and careful penmanship. At the age of eight, I hadn’t yet mastered the latter two, but I was pretty certain that I could get a head start on number one.
You visited on Christmas every other year, and I would I watch wide-eyed as you unwrapped a gift delicately so as not to tear the paper. “Open it!” we’d yell excitedly. “But the wrapping is gorgeous,” you'd say, as if the paper itself were the gift. You would carefully slice the tape with your painted fingernail, and gently open the paper. The paper, aside from the creases, was pristine. You would neatly fold it and hand it back to my mom. “We should save it for next year, ” you’d say. You didn’t even make a mess on Christmas morning.
Dad inherited your affinity for all things neat and orderly. His desk is piled high with tidy, purposeful stacks of papers. His music collection is alphabetized. He dries in between each individual toe after a shower or a swim. He’s never left a sweater or stray sock strewn on the bedroom floor. And he wouldn’t go within ten feet of a caramel apple. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then, to my father, the ultimate evil is something sticky.
On my brother’s first birthday, my dad watched in utter revulsion as his son, his firstborn, painted his face with cake and ice cream. Milky drips hung from his lips and his chin. His pudgy fingers were covered in moist brown cake. Graham, my brother, was in gooey heaven. My dad on the other hand was in, well, quite a different place. As my mom tells the story, my dad had to practically look away in order to shield his eyes from the sticky horror show that was unfolding before him. He kept trying to clean Graham’s face and hands because he could almost feel the sweet gumminess on his own, and he couldn’t take it. My mom, however, was unaffected by my brother’s mess, happily snapping pictures, but she tired of my dad’s grumbling. In one of the most famous acts in Shullman history, a triumph that will be retold for generations to come, my mom filled a bowl with ice cream, marched over to my dad, and turned it upside down on his very bald, and now very sticky, head.
The overturned bowl of cold chocolate quieted my dad’s complaints for the remainder of the party and Graham was allowed to continue his dessert bath, as any one year old should on his first birthday. Yet, my dad was not transformed. His extreme distaste for mess, particularly for all things foodstuff, was not eradicated. To this day when he has a cup of coffee, he must always have a napkin handy. Crumbs are neatly swept into an open palm and discarded after every meal or a snack, my dad leaning eye level to the table to make sure no morsel is left behind. And when my brother spills, something he, to my father’s dismay, is liable to do at nearly every meal, my dad pushes his chair back with such immediate and swift force one might think a bomb had gone off or a mouse had just skittered across the table. He jumps up and away with precision to avoid the approaching seepage of milk or beer or even water, swearing aloud and wondering how this boy could possibly be his own offspring.
My brother, needless to say, did not inherit the Shullman neat gene. His car is often covered – on the passenger seat, the floor, the backseat – with leftover paper coffee cups and loose CDs and empty jewel cases. When my parents visited him his senior year of college, my mom actually cried when she walked into the house where he was living because it was so filthy. My dad would have worn a hazmat suit if he had been duly warned. And while he no longer lives in total squalor, his current apartment got so dirty one time that someone mistook a dust bunny under his dresser for a rather large pair of rolled up men’s socks.
So, it was left to me to carry on your and Dad’s propensity for orderliness. It’s not a choice that I made. It simply courses through my veins. It is part of my genetic makeup as surely as my hazel eyes or slight frame.
I got a sticker book for my 8th birthday and placed my stickers in neat rows, each according to its category. One row for hearts, one for animals, another for scratch and sniffs, a page devoted to puffy stickers. I’m not sure if I showed my dad, but if I had, I’m sure he’d have been proud. Here was one child who appreciated organization.
During my senior year of college I lived in a house with four other girls. I became the self-appointed house manager, collecting checks for rent and utilities, cleaning the living room of empty soda or beer cans each morning, Windexing the coffee table. At times I would get resentful of my roommates because I seemed to be doing so much to keep the house in order. And then I realized that, to my shock, they didn’t need it to be orderly and clean as I did. They could walk by a coffee table with an overflowing ashtray surrounded by gray smudges of ash on the table and sticky rings of spilled brown soda, and be unaffected. I, on the other hand, could not sit and enjoy an episode of Seinfeld until the mess had been cleared away. It would eat at me and my eyes would stray from the television to the chaos on the table before me, the cigarette butts taunting me, seeming to say, “You just can’t stand it can you?” So I accepted it as my burden and cleaned. And my obsession with orderliness stretched beyond even my own living space. Years later living in New York City, when I visited my then boyfriend, now husband, at his studio apartment, I would walk in, give him a kiss hello, then get some Fantastic, a roll of paper towels, and get to work. If I was going to sit there and watch an entire Yankees game on his sofa, I was not going to do it amidst empty takeout boxes and strewn plastic bottles. Five minutes of tidying, a few spritzes of spray cleaner, and then I could relax. Ahh. Now that was more like it. I wasn’t doing it for him. I was doing it for me.
Yet, my appetite for organization is not satisfied by simply keeping a neat and tidy environment. It touches nearly every facet of my life. My checkbook is perpetually balanced. I know, down to the penny, how much money we have in the bank at any given moment. I make list upon list upon list. To-do lists, grocery lists, things-to-do-around-the-house lists, restaurants-I’d-like-to-try lists, and when I cross something off a list, I make a new list because that first list, well, now it looks messy.
Every once in a while I try and tell myself to relax, live on the edge, throw caution to the wind and just let that dirtied plate sit there for an hour or so while I finish a movie. Don’t make the bed today. To hell with the to-do list. But inevitably I pause the movie after a few tortured moments and remove the dish. I fluff the pillows, placing the decorative ones just so. I compose yet another list, and, while doing so, I remind myself that it’s a genetic predisposition. It is out of my control. Nature is to blame. And thanks to nature, I rarely have to buy wrapping paper anymore. Last year’s barely creased paper works just fine.
Love, Katie
When you arrived from New York City to our house in Michigan for each of your twice-yearly visits, I would sit on one of the twin beds in the guest room and watch you unpack. Your clothes were always folded perfectly, as pin straight and ironed flat as one might see in a military school drawer. Your delicates and finer clothes were wrapped in slightly crinkled tissue paper that had undoubtedly been recycled from a Lord & Taylor’s box or some other such gift packaging and then re-recycled trip after trip. As you unwrapped each article of clothing you would hang it in the closet or place it neatly into one of the dressing table drawers, according to its need. Skirts, slacks, and blouses were hung in the closet an inch or so apart to avoid wrinkling. Sweaters and underthings were stacked or placed side by side in a drawer. The tissue paper was neatly folded and placed into the drawer next to the stockings to be used once again when it was time to pack and return to New York City.
On each of your visits, I watched this process of unpacking and wondered why on Earth someone would go to all that trouble just to avoid a wrinkle. And yet, there was something exciting about watching you unpack. You had turned a mundane activity into something more. The tissue paper held surprises, as if each cashmere sweater or silk blouse was a gift unwrapped and set eyes upon for the first time.
When you visited, you kept the guest room in pristine condition at all times. You made the bed every morning, your book was perfectly aligned on the night table, and the towels were hung carefully. I would mimic you and try to make my own bedroom a picture of perfection during her visits, hoping you’d walk by and comment on my ability to keep a tidy room. Tidiness was a virtue that ranked at the top of your list, just above good grammar and careful penmanship. At the age of eight, I hadn’t yet mastered the latter two, but I was pretty certain that I could get a head start on number one.
You visited on Christmas every other year, and I would I watch wide-eyed as you unwrapped a gift delicately so as not to tear the paper. “Open it!” we’d yell excitedly. “But the wrapping is gorgeous,” you'd say, as if the paper itself were the gift. You would carefully slice the tape with your painted fingernail, and gently open the paper. The paper, aside from the creases, was pristine. You would neatly fold it and hand it back to my mom. “We should save it for next year, ” you’d say. You didn’t even make a mess on Christmas morning.
Dad inherited your affinity for all things neat and orderly. His desk is piled high with tidy, purposeful stacks of papers. His music collection is alphabetized. He dries in between each individual toe after a shower or a swim. He’s never left a sweater or stray sock strewn on the bedroom floor. And he wouldn’t go within ten feet of a caramel apple. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then, to my father, the ultimate evil is something sticky.
On my brother’s first birthday, my dad watched in utter revulsion as his son, his firstborn, painted his face with cake and ice cream. Milky drips hung from his lips and his chin. His pudgy fingers were covered in moist brown cake. Graham, my brother, was in gooey heaven. My dad on the other hand was in, well, quite a different place. As my mom tells the story, my dad had to practically look away in order to shield his eyes from the sticky horror show that was unfolding before him. He kept trying to clean Graham’s face and hands because he could almost feel the sweet gumminess on his own, and he couldn’t take it. My mom, however, was unaffected by my brother’s mess, happily snapping pictures, but she tired of my dad’s grumbling. In one of the most famous acts in Shullman history, a triumph that will be retold for generations to come, my mom filled a bowl with ice cream, marched over to my dad, and turned it upside down on his very bald, and now very sticky, head.
The overturned bowl of cold chocolate quieted my dad’s complaints for the remainder of the party and Graham was allowed to continue his dessert bath, as any one year old should on his first birthday. Yet, my dad was not transformed. His extreme distaste for mess, particularly for all things foodstuff, was not eradicated. To this day when he has a cup of coffee, he must always have a napkin handy. Crumbs are neatly swept into an open palm and discarded after every meal or a snack, my dad leaning eye level to the table to make sure no morsel is left behind. And when my brother spills, something he, to my father’s dismay, is liable to do at nearly every meal, my dad pushes his chair back with such immediate and swift force one might think a bomb had gone off or a mouse had just skittered across the table. He jumps up and away with precision to avoid the approaching seepage of milk or beer or even water, swearing aloud and wondering how this boy could possibly be his own offspring.
My brother, needless to say, did not inherit the Shullman neat gene. His car is often covered – on the passenger seat, the floor, the backseat – with leftover paper coffee cups and loose CDs and empty jewel cases. When my parents visited him his senior year of college, my mom actually cried when she walked into the house where he was living because it was so filthy. My dad would have worn a hazmat suit if he had been duly warned. And while he no longer lives in total squalor, his current apartment got so dirty one time that someone mistook a dust bunny under his dresser for a rather large pair of rolled up men’s socks.
So, it was left to me to carry on your and Dad’s propensity for orderliness. It’s not a choice that I made. It simply courses through my veins. It is part of my genetic makeup as surely as my hazel eyes or slight frame.
I got a sticker book for my 8th birthday and placed my stickers in neat rows, each according to its category. One row for hearts, one for animals, another for scratch and sniffs, a page devoted to puffy stickers. I’m not sure if I showed my dad, but if I had, I’m sure he’d have been proud. Here was one child who appreciated organization.
During my senior year of college I lived in a house with four other girls. I became the self-appointed house manager, collecting checks for rent and utilities, cleaning the living room of empty soda or beer cans each morning, Windexing the coffee table. At times I would get resentful of my roommates because I seemed to be doing so much to keep the house in order. And then I realized that, to my shock, they didn’t need it to be orderly and clean as I did. They could walk by a coffee table with an overflowing ashtray surrounded by gray smudges of ash on the table and sticky rings of spilled brown soda, and be unaffected. I, on the other hand, could not sit and enjoy an episode of Seinfeld until the mess had been cleared away. It would eat at me and my eyes would stray from the television to the chaos on the table before me, the cigarette butts taunting me, seeming to say, “You just can’t stand it can you?” So I accepted it as my burden and cleaned. And my obsession with orderliness stretched beyond even my own living space. Years later living in New York City, when I visited my then boyfriend, now husband, at his studio apartment, I would walk in, give him a kiss hello, then get some Fantastic, a roll of paper towels, and get to work. If I was going to sit there and watch an entire Yankees game on his sofa, I was not going to do it amidst empty takeout boxes and strewn plastic bottles. Five minutes of tidying, a few spritzes of spray cleaner, and then I could relax. Ahh. Now that was more like it. I wasn’t doing it for him. I was doing it for me.
Yet, my appetite for organization is not satisfied by simply keeping a neat and tidy environment. It touches nearly every facet of my life. My checkbook is perpetually balanced. I know, down to the penny, how much money we have in the bank at any given moment. I make list upon list upon list. To-do lists, grocery lists, things-to-do-around-the-house lists, restaurants-I’d-like-to-try lists, and when I cross something off a list, I make a new list because that first list, well, now it looks messy.
Every once in a while I try and tell myself to relax, live on the edge, throw caution to the wind and just let that dirtied plate sit there for an hour or so while I finish a movie. Don’t make the bed today. To hell with the to-do list. But inevitably I pause the movie after a few tortured moments and remove the dish. I fluff the pillows, placing the decorative ones just so. I compose yet another list, and, while doing so, I remind myself that it’s a genetic predisposition. It is out of my control. Nature is to blame. And thanks to nature, I rarely have to buy wrapping paper anymore. Last year’s barely creased paper works just fine.
Love, Katie
Friday, March 7, 2008
First Best Friend
Dear Nana - In my writing class last week we spoke about important relationships we'd had with people. We were asked to write about one. I've written so much about you lately, and I thought it would be cliche to write about mom and dad and Graham. Or about Jim. Of course those are important relationships. But I began to think about friends. About old friends. Do you remember my best friend Jessica in Michigan? I know you met her. She was my first true best friend. I wish I knew who yours was. I wonder if you still remember her after all these years. Perhaps we never forget. I hope not...
As you know I moved to Michigan from New York City at the tail end of 2nd grade, so it wasn’t until 3rd grade that I made any true friends. When September rolled around and it was time to begin a new year, I was still the shy, awkward new girl in school. If it hadn’t been for Jessica, it might have been a difficult year.
Jessica was new too. She sat behind me and wasn’t shy at all. She was hyperactive and tomboyish and talked a lot. She was my opposite in many ways. She was reckless on the playground and dressed in jeans and three-quarter length sleeve baseball tees. I was cautious on the monkey bars and wore braided pigtails with patent leather shoes. The first time we had a “play date” we went bike riding after school. Jessica was in front and several bike lengths ahead of me riding with one hand on the handlebars, black hair flying out behind her. I was trying to catch up, fearful that she would get too far ahead and I would never find my way to her house. There was a sprinkler making its arch toward the sidewalk so I tried to beat it, but as I flew down the sidewalk, pedaling as fast as I could, the bike’s front tire skidded on the wet concrete, and I flew over the handlebars, landing face first on the dark gray cement. Jessica must have looked back to see where I was, and then, realizing I was no longer behind her, but rather crumpled beneath my bicycle with my face in my palm, she bee-lined back for me. “Are you okay?” she asked, frightened but in control. Jessica was always in control.. I looked up at her through my tears, hands and lips bloodied, and shook my head “no.” She told me to hold on. She hopped on her bike and raced home. Within minutes her mother, a woman whom I’d never met before appeared beside me in her beige car. She got out of the car and helped me to my feet. Only then did I notice that she was wearing her robe and a pair of slippers. She put my bike in her trunk and me in the back seat beside Jessica and we headed off to my house where we collected my mom and sped to the nearest dentist. The dentist informed me that, while I had a nasty fat lip and a few loose teeth, no permanent damage had been done.
I spent the next three weeks at school with my hand cupped around my unsightly mouth at all times. I was mortified about my fat lip and scabbed mouth. Except around Jessica. Around her, I let my hand fall from my face. She didn’t seem to notice and, because of this, we became inseparable.
Jessica and I both fell madly in love with the same boy, John. At that age, there was no competition. Our young minds and hearts hadn’t quite grasped monogamy and because John didn’t seem to know either of us existed, it didn’t really matter. We wrote him a joint love letter, my first, and rode our bikes to his house. Jessica, always the braver one, ran up to his front door and stuffed it into his mailbox. She came barreling back down the walkway, mounted her bike, and we sped off, careful to avoid sprinklers, and we made it off the block without being noticed. He never mentioned the note, but it didn’t seem to matter. The fact that we’d written it was enough.
Jessica brought out the performer in me. We spent hours watching Grease and mooning over Kenicki. We knew every word and took turns playing Sandy and Danny. We used her father’s video camera to film I Dream of Jeanie spots. It would go something like this: “Hmm, I’d really love a glass of water.” Then I’d blink my eyes just like Barbara Eden, Jessica would stop the camera and place a glass in my hand. Then we’d start the camera again and there I was drinking the water, as if it had magically appeared. We thought we were brilliant. We spent afternoons in her basement watching Annie and reenacting “Hard Knock Life”, singing our hearts out and cursing at Carol Burnett for her evilness. We even wrote a pilot episode for a new sitcom.
Jessica moved during 4th grade. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I remember standing in her driveway, her family car packed full, and Jessica and I weeping as we said good-bye. She was my first true best friend. And she was moving all the way to California . I was inconsolable.
Despite the distance, we remained best friends for many years after the move. I even flew on my own to California when I was 14 to visit. There was initial awkwardness after so much time had passed, but through letters we knew enough about one another’s lives to move past that within a few short hours. By day two, we had already choreographed an entire video to the Bangles’ “Manic Monday”. When I left after two weeks, I came home with a bad case of sunburn, a massive crush on her friend Marcus, and a renewed belief in our best-friendship.
Yet, as the years passed, Jessica and I, as teenagers do, moved on. We replaced each other with new best friends. We sadly lost touch.
And then, a few months ago, something appeared in my mailbox. When I saw Jessica’s name and the return address, I stared at the envelope. I couldn’t imagine what would be inside. I tore it open, pulled the papers out of the envelope, and unfolded them. There, in my hands, was our script for our sitcom written in our nine-year-old handwriting. “You’ll never guess what I found,” the note said.
I read our script right there in the mailroom. I’d remembered it as being brilliant and far beyond our years. But upon reading it again, it was just as juvenile as something one of my students would write. The supposedly half-hour show, in which we had cast not only ourselves, but also John Fleckenstein, would have run maybe 7 minutes. And the plot was a clear rip-off of the Punky Brewster episode in which she promises Henry that she’s cleaned her room and then, to her surprise, Henry opens the closet and gets pinned beneath all of her belongings as they come tumbling out. Very original.
I folded the script and placed it back in the envelope, a silly grin on my face. Once in my apartment, I tucked the envelope into a drawer where I keep the things that are important to me. I sent Jessica an email, telling her what fun it was to read the script. I told her to please look me up the next time she comes to New York . I haven’t seen her yet. But I hope I do. Until then I’ll keep checking my mailbox. Perhaps that “I Dream of Jeanie” tape might just show up.
Love, Katie
As you know I moved to Michigan from New York City at the tail end of 2nd grade, so it wasn’t until 3rd grade that I made any true friends. When September rolled around and it was time to begin a new year, I was still the shy, awkward new girl in school. If it hadn’t been for Jessica, it might have been a difficult year.
Jessica was new too. She sat behind me and wasn’t shy at all. She was hyperactive and tomboyish and talked a lot. She was my opposite in many ways. She was reckless on the playground and dressed in jeans and three-quarter length sleeve baseball tees. I was cautious on the monkey bars and wore braided pigtails with patent leather shoes. The first time we had a “play date” we went bike riding after school. Jessica was in front and several bike lengths ahead of me riding with one hand on the handlebars, black hair flying out behind her. I was trying to catch up, fearful that she would get too far ahead and I would never find my way to her house. There was a sprinkler making its arch toward the sidewalk so I tried to beat it, but as I flew down the sidewalk, pedaling as fast as I could, the bike’s front tire skidded on the wet concrete, and I flew over the handlebars, landing face first on the dark gray cement. Jessica must have looked back to see where I was, and then, realizing I was no longer behind her, but rather crumpled beneath my bicycle with my face in my palm, she bee-lined back for me. “Are you okay?” she asked, frightened but in control. Jessica was always in control.. I looked up at her through my tears, hands and lips bloodied, and shook my head “no.” She told me to hold on. She hopped on her bike and raced home. Within minutes her mother, a woman whom I’d never met before appeared beside me in her beige car. She got out of the car and helped me to my feet. Only then did I notice that she was wearing her robe and a pair of slippers. She put my bike in her trunk and me in the back seat beside Jessica and we headed off to my house where we collected my mom and sped to the nearest dentist. The dentist informed me that, while I had a nasty fat lip and a few loose teeth, no permanent damage had been done.
I spent the next three weeks at school with my hand cupped around my unsightly mouth at all times. I was mortified about my fat lip and scabbed mouth. Except around Jessica. Around her, I let my hand fall from my face. She didn’t seem to notice and, because of this, we became inseparable.
Jessica and I both fell madly in love with the same boy, John. At that age, there was no competition. Our young minds and hearts hadn’t quite grasped monogamy and because John didn’t seem to know either of us existed, it didn’t really matter. We wrote him a joint love letter, my first, and rode our bikes to his house. Jessica, always the braver one, ran up to his front door and stuffed it into his mailbox. She came barreling back down the walkway, mounted her bike, and we sped off, careful to avoid sprinklers, and we made it off the block without being noticed. He never mentioned the note, but it didn’t seem to matter. The fact that we’d written it was enough.
Jessica brought out the performer in me. We spent hours watching Grease and mooning over Kenicki. We knew every word and took turns playing Sandy and Danny. We used her father’s video camera to film I Dream of Jeanie spots. It would go something like this: “Hmm, I’d really love a glass of water.” Then I’d blink my eyes just like Barbara Eden, Jessica would stop the camera and place a glass in my hand. Then we’d start the camera again and there I was drinking the water, as if it had magically appeared. We thought we were brilliant. We spent afternoons in her basement watching Annie and reenacting “Hard Knock Life”, singing our hearts out and cursing at Carol Burnett for her evilness. We even wrote a pilot episode for a new sitcom.
Jessica moved during 4th grade. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I remember standing in her driveway, her family car packed full, and Jessica and I weeping as we said good-bye. She was my first true best friend. And she was moving all the way to California . I was inconsolable.
Despite the distance, we remained best friends for many years after the move. I even flew on my own to California when I was 14 to visit. There was initial awkwardness after so much time had passed, but through letters we knew enough about one another’s lives to move past that within a few short hours. By day two, we had already choreographed an entire video to the Bangles’ “Manic Monday”. When I left after two weeks, I came home with a bad case of sunburn, a massive crush on her friend Marcus, and a renewed belief in our best-friendship.
Yet, as the years passed, Jessica and I, as teenagers do, moved on. We replaced each other with new best friends. We sadly lost touch.
And then, a few months ago, something appeared in my mailbox. When I saw Jessica’s name and the return address, I stared at the envelope. I couldn’t imagine what would be inside. I tore it open, pulled the papers out of the envelope, and unfolded them. There, in my hands, was our script for our sitcom written in our nine-year-old handwriting. “You’ll never guess what I found,” the note said.
I read our script right there in the mailroom. I’d remembered it as being brilliant and far beyond our years. But upon reading it again, it was just as juvenile as something one of my students would write. The supposedly half-hour show, in which we had cast not only ourselves, but also John Fleckenstein, would have run maybe 7 minutes. And the plot was a clear rip-off of the Punky Brewster episode in which she promises Henry that she’s cleaned her room and then, to her surprise, Henry opens the closet and gets pinned beneath all of her belongings as they come tumbling out. Very original.
I folded the script and placed it back in the envelope, a silly grin on my face. Once in my apartment, I tucked the envelope into a drawer where I keep the things that are important to me. I sent Jessica an email, telling her what fun it was to read the script. I told her to please look me up the next time she comes to New York . I haven’t seen her yet. But I hope I do. Until then I’ll keep checking my mailbox. Perhaps that “I Dream of Jeanie” tape might just show up.
Love, Katie
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Those Three Little Words
Dear Nana,
It's been a while since I've shared with you some of the old letters written between you and Grandpa Saul. I'm sure you are anxious to hear more from the bygone days of your early 20s when you met your first and only love. The letters I will share with you today are the earliest notes that I have from you, aside from the first letter I shared with you back in September . Because you were both in the city during the spring of 1931, the time in which your affection, like the tulips on Park Avenue, blossomed, no letters exist from that period, aside from the one I've already shared. However, when you went to work as a camp counselor in July of that summer, you and Saul wrote nearly daily. And in this first set, I seem to have stumbled upon the moments just after the two of you first uttered those three little words, words you would shower one another with for years to come.
July 1, 1931
Honey -
Let me outline to you, my thoughts of the day, from one o'clock onward. I arrived back at the store at one-ten, walked around the floor not forgetting once to notice the time. Finally, two o'clock arrived. I pictured little Henny, comfortably seated, waiting for the train to roar forth. From then on I had the time table in front of me almost until five o'clock. Gee! I wish I were with you, to help you with your trunks upon your arrival. Darling, you have no idea how contented I felt after I said good-bye to you in the manner that I least expected. At this moment, I am looking forty-eight hours ahead with a great deal of anticipation. Did you arrive there without any hitch? Well, I'll see you soon. Love me? I love you.
Your precious,
Saul
July 1, 1931
Saul, darling,
It seems knowing you has meant just one surprise after another and each one seems to mean just a bit more than the one before. You've probably guessed what I'm referring to - your being at the station this afternoon. Honey, you must know how happy I was to see you by the way I rushed over. Darling, again I must comment on your splendid advice. My trunks got here perfectly. However, there was a little delay getting them from the station therefore this stationery. Your next letter positively comes on your gorgeous paper. Sweetheart, there's really nothing to tell you as far as camp is concerned and besides I'm being rushed to bed because its way passed curfew hour. You understand, don't you? Anyways, I'll see you right after you receive this so I'd rather have more to say then.
But there's one thing I can say now that I can repeat with as much flavor even when you get here - you know
I love you
Your treasure,
Henny
You wrote to one another on the same day, neither of you able to wait for a letter from the other. Did he say it first or did you? I can see you at the train station, trunks by your side, dressed for travel. Surely you were wearing something "smart". Travelling by train was still quite an event in those days. Nowadays no one dresses for travel. I'm embarrassed to admit that I tend to travel in sweats, class taking the backseat to comfort. But not back then. Not during a time when trains still "roared forth" as if each time the train whistle blew it announced an incredible adventure, an astonishing feat of modern transport.
There you must have waited alone at Grand Central Station, missing your Saul already, when you turned to find him walking toward you. You rushed to him and threw your arms around him. And he told you he loved you. A warmth filled you from your toes to the hat on your head, your face beamed and cheeks reddened and you told him you loved him too. He handed you a small parcel and you unwrapped it right then and there. He had bought you some beautiful, feminine stationery, as delicate and as refined as he believed you to be. And you promised one another you'd write. Every day. He kissed you goodbye and led you to the platform, telling you one last time, "I love you, Henny." Then he strode away, off to work at Ohrbachs. And your eyes never left his back until he was out of sight, disappearing into the crowd that had filled the station. Had these people been there all along? You hadn't noticed. You'd only seen him. You boarded the train, face aglow. This was it. This was . . . love.
I'll never know quite how it happened. But this is how I imagine it to be. Hmm. Grand Central Station. I've been there more times than I can possibly count. But it will never be the same again. It will no longer be a place that stands for aggravation and congestion and crowds. No. It's much more than that now. It's the place where you first heard those three little words. Three little words that roared forth, never ceasing, never quieting, but echoing for decades to come.
Love,
Katie
It's been a while since I've shared with you some of the old letters written between you and Grandpa Saul. I'm sure you are anxious to hear more from the bygone days of your early 20s when you met your first and only love. The letters I will share with you today are the earliest notes that I have from you, aside from the first letter I shared with you back in September . Because you were both in the city during the spring of 1931, the time in which your affection, like the tulips on Park Avenue, blossomed, no letters exist from that period, aside from the one I've already shared. However, when you went to work as a camp counselor in July of that summer, you and Saul wrote nearly daily. And in this first set, I seem to have stumbled upon the moments just after the two of you first uttered those three little words, words you would shower one another with for years to come.
July 1, 1931
Honey -
Let me outline to you, my thoughts of the day, from one o'clock onward. I arrived back at the store at one-ten, walked around the floor not forgetting once to notice the time. Finally, two o'clock arrived. I pictured little Henny, comfortably seated, waiting for the train to roar forth. From then on I had the time table in front of me almost until five o'clock. Gee! I wish I were with you, to help you with your trunks upon your arrival. Darling, you have no idea how contented I felt after I said good-bye to you in the manner that I least expected. At this moment, I am looking forty-eight hours ahead with a great deal of anticipation. Did you arrive there without any hitch? Well, I'll see you soon. Love me? I love you.
Your precious,
Saul
July 1, 1931
Saul, darling,
It seems knowing you has meant just one surprise after another and each one seems to mean just a bit more than the one before. You've probably guessed what I'm referring to - your being at the station this afternoon. Honey, you must know how happy I was to see you by the way I rushed over. Darling, again I must comment on your splendid advice. My trunks got here perfectly. However, there was a little delay getting them from the station therefore this stationery. Your next letter positively comes on your gorgeous paper. Sweetheart, there's really nothing to tell you as far as camp is concerned and besides I'm being rushed to bed because its way passed curfew hour. You understand, don't you? Anyways, I'll see you right after you receive this so I'd rather have more to say then.
But there's one thing I can say now that I can repeat with as much flavor even when you get here - you know
I love you
Your treasure,
Henny
You wrote to one another on the same day, neither of you able to wait for a letter from the other. Did he say it first or did you? I can see you at the train station, trunks by your side, dressed for travel. Surely you were wearing something "smart". Travelling by train was still quite an event in those days. Nowadays no one dresses for travel. I'm embarrassed to admit that I tend to travel in sweats, class taking the backseat to comfort. But not back then. Not during a time when trains still "roared forth" as if each time the train whistle blew it announced an incredible adventure, an astonishing feat of modern transport.
There you must have waited alone at Grand Central Station, missing your Saul already, when you turned to find him walking toward you. You rushed to him and threw your arms around him. And he told you he loved you. A warmth filled you from your toes to the hat on your head, your face beamed and cheeks reddened and you told him you loved him too. He handed you a small parcel and you unwrapped it right then and there. He had bought you some beautiful, feminine stationery, as delicate and as refined as he believed you to be. And you promised one another you'd write. Every day. He kissed you goodbye and led you to the platform, telling you one last time, "I love you, Henny." Then he strode away, off to work at Ohrbachs. And your eyes never left his back until he was out of sight, disappearing into the crowd that had filled the station. Had these people been there all along? You hadn't noticed. You'd only seen him. You boarded the train, face aglow. This was it. This was . . . love.
I'll never know quite how it happened. But this is how I imagine it to be. Hmm. Grand Central Station. I've been there more times than I can possibly count. But it will never be the same again. It will no longer be a place that stands for aggravation and congestion and crowds. No. It's much more than that now. It's the place where you first heard those three little words. Three little words that roared forth, never ceasing, never quieting, but echoing for decades to come.
Love,
Katie
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
I Guess I Asked For It
Dear Nana,
Just a quick note. When I was home over the holidays, I went through some old drawers where Mom keeps mementos: old letters, report cards, drawings that Graham and I did over the years. I came across a letter that I'd written to Mom and Dad from camp in 1985. Here's a portion of it....
Do you remember the letter I wrote you in September about Singing Lessons? I guess I asked for it. Can't really blame those camp couselors for making me sing. I knew what I was in for. I guess I must have really loved those Dipps granola bars....
Love, Katie
Just a quick note. When I was home over the holidays, I went through some old drawers where Mom keeps mementos: old letters, report cards, drawings that Graham and I did over the years. I came across a letter that I'd written to Mom and Dad from camp in 1985. Here's a portion of it....
Do you remember the letter I wrote you in September about Singing Lessons? I guess I asked for it. Can't really blame those camp couselors for making me sing. I knew what I was in for. I guess I must have really loved those Dipps granola bars....
Love, Katie
Luminaries and Long Lost Sleepovers
Dear Nana,
I was in Michigan over the holidays visiting Mom, Dad, and Graham. As usual, we lit the luminaries on Christmas Eve. You remember, don't you? The white paper bags with candles inside that flicker throughout the dark night, staying lit until morning, lighting the way for Santa, or at least we used to think so. I remember Graham, on our way home from church on a Christmas Eve long ago, his face pressed against the car's frosty window as we wound our way home to get into our pajamas and prepare cookies and milk for our soon-to-be visitor. His face glowed and his eyes widenend as he announced to the rest of us that the luminaries were just like a runway, but instead of an airport runway, this was a runway for Santa's sleigh. With the luminaries lighting the way, Santa would surely be able to find us. And, of course, when we awoke the next morning and wiped the sleep from our eyes, we found that Santa had indeed paid us a visit.
I slept in your old room, in your old bed, on Christmas eve, since my twin bed in my old bedroom is not big enough for Jim and me to share. The framed poster of the play "Henrietta, Have You Met Her?" still hangs on the wall, reminding visitors that this room, no matter who sleeps in it, will always belong to you. Your double bed has taken the place of the two twins that used to be in the room, but I can still remember what it looked like before. I used to love having "sleepovers" with you on the nights that you visited. We'd both read in our individual beds, you with your glasses on a chain around your neck, me straining to keep my eyes open and keep reading, even though it was past my bedtime.
It has been a long time since one of those sleepovers, but each time I visit home and I sleep in that room, I feel just a little bit closer to you and time melts away like the snow. I am a little girl again, anxious for Christmas morning, giddy with the thought of what daylight will bring. Christmas this year was wonderful. But, I missed you this Christmas. We all did. But in a way, you were there with us. I guess you're always there. In that house, in the guest room. You're just waiting for someone to visit.
Merry belated Christmas, Nana.
Love, Katie
I was in Michigan over the holidays visiting Mom, Dad, and Graham. As usual, we lit the luminaries on Christmas Eve. You remember, don't you? The white paper bags with candles inside that flicker throughout the dark night, staying lit until morning, lighting the way for Santa, or at least we used to think so. I remember Graham, on our way home from church on a Christmas Eve long ago, his face pressed against the car's frosty window as we wound our way home to get into our pajamas and prepare cookies and milk for our soon-to-be visitor. His face glowed and his eyes widenend as he announced to the rest of us that the luminaries were just like a runway, but instead of an airport runway, this was a runway for Santa's sleigh. With the luminaries lighting the way, Santa would surely be able to find us. And, of course, when we awoke the next morning and wiped the sleep from our eyes, we found that Santa had indeed paid us a visit.
I slept in your old room, in your old bed, on Christmas eve, since my twin bed in my old bedroom is not big enough for Jim and me to share. The framed poster of the play "Henrietta, Have You Met Her?" still hangs on the wall, reminding visitors that this room, no matter who sleeps in it, will always belong to you. Your double bed has taken the place of the two twins that used to be in the room, but I can still remember what it looked like before. I used to love having "sleepovers" with you on the nights that you visited. We'd both read in our individual beds, you with your glasses on a chain around your neck, me straining to keep my eyes open and keep reading, even though it was past my bedtime.
It has been a long time since one of those sleepovers, but each time I visit home and I sleep in that room, I feel just a little bit closer to you and time melts away like the snow. I am a little girl again, anxious for Christmas morning, giddy with the thought of what daylight will bring. Christmas this year was wonderful. But, I missed you this Christmas. We all did. But in a way, you were there with us. I guess you're always there. In that house, in the guest room. You're just waiting for someone to visit.
Merry belated Christmas, Nana.
Love, Katie
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