Dear Nana,

Something Has Shifted

2008-11-12T19:32:00.009-05:00

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

Genetic Predisposition

2008-10-15T07:29:00.002-04:00

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

First Best Friend

2008-03-07T21:13:00.005-05:00

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

Those Three Little Words

2008-01-09T19:39:00.000-05:00

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

I Guess I Asked For It

2008-01-02T19:38:00.000-05:00

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

Luminaries and Long Lost Sleepovers

2008-01-02T19:15:00.000-05:00

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

Old Age Lurking Around Every Corner, Especially 60th and Park

2007-11-29T20:18:00.000-05:00

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

A Second Chance

2007-11-14T20:34:00.000-05:00

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

Which Came First? The Chick or the Chicken

2007-11-07T19:02:00.000-05:00

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

Inimitable Goddess

2007-10-21T19:33:00.000-04:00

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

To Be Remembered

2007-10-21T19:21:00.000-04:00

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

Delicious Secrets

2007-10-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

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

My New York

2007-10-06T18:50:00.000-04:00

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

What Became of Timmy

2007-10-03T19:31:00.000-04:00

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

Autumn in New York

2007-09-29T11:05:00.001-04:00

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

I Am a Teacher, Too

2007-09-26T19:40:00.001-04:00

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