I felt very
happy after completing the class, but also very sleep-deprived. I took a quick nap, ate some food, and then
got in that familiar driver’s seat to go through the Bronx and Queens to central
Long Island for a very important gathering of family. They had a memorial service for my Aunt
Diana’s mother, Jean Lynch, who was affectionately called Mimi by her
grandchildren. She was the warmest and
friendliest human I’ve been blessed to meet.
What’s more, she was the best audience and interviewer I’ve been
fortunate to have ask me about my life and experiences. She engaged everyone she met with enthusiasm,
and asked excellent follow-up questions to show that she was interested in who
they were. She died in October after a
long well-spent life with many laughs and long hugs, but the family waited
until this weekend to remember her publicly.
Since she wanted it to be a happy experience for all involved, they
served popcorn and ice cream. My aunt
set the tone by giving a moving, funny and emotional speech about her mother,
and then opened the floor for others. My
father read a poem that my mother had selected, as she couldn’t come due to the
unexpected arrival of some new stray kittens that needed her care. After he was finished I read some thoughts
she had written for the occasion. Then I
shared a few thoughts of my own, mostly thanking Jean for being the first
person to earnestly interview me about that first seven month journey around
the world, and for always making me feel special, loved and admired, a theme
expressed by many of the speakers. After
a few more people spoke the gathering began to disperse and I got to see my
younger cousins, all of whom I remember holding when they were babies. The oldest is now at college near Lake
Champlain, studying education for children, the middle one is about to graduate
high school, and the youngest in all of our family is finishing his first year
of high school. Then I got to catch up
with my uncle, that is, my dad’s younger brother, who is only 19 years older
than I am.
Completing an
astounding week of memory lane, I was lucky to drive to my grandmother’s house
to have the greatest pizza in the world with my father, uncle and
grandmother. This is the same house
where my grandfather was born, my father was brought home from the hospital,
and I was brought home from the hospital.
I also lived the first few years of my life there. The day was also a milestone for this place,
because my grandfather had died three years earlier on that date. I had been teaching first and second grade
students in Tokyo at the time he left, May 31, 2011. That is, at the moment he left this world, I had just finished classes and was dancing on a train while wearing an army
combat jacket I'd frequently sported during my adventures. Then again, that was the only day I can remember wearing it to that school. I liked it because it always made me feel like I was on a challenging mission. I also felt like I was brave, like my grandfather, however much that was possible, since he had grown up during the depression and volunteered to be a marine, lying about his age at seventeen, so he could go fight against Japan in World War II, probably never imagining that one of his many grandsons would return decades later to teach the
children English.
There were plenty of happy stories to share about him as we sat around the familiar family dining room table, but we also talked a little about all of the things we knew he had seen during his war days. Apparently the only time my grandmother almost saw him cry was when Mimi had asked him about the war a few years before he died. It was something he never talked about. He didn’t need to, because he was also a highway state trooper who saw more than his share of accidents. He told me a few years later that he was just happy all of his children were alive and that he had survived them, because he knew that was a privilege, not a guarantee by any means.
We lightened the mood with some exquisite birthday cake (it had been my uncle’s birthday a few days earlier). I enjoyed telling my grandmother and uncle about why I loved living in the city and spending my time with so many people, and how much I’ve learned from them. Then I drove back to Manhattan, my current “home.”
There were plenty of happy stories to share about him as we sat around the familiar family dining room table, but we also talked a little about all of the things we knew he had seen during his war days. Apparently the only time my grandmother almost saw him cry was when Mimi had asked him about the war a few years before he died. It was something he never talked about. He didn’t need to, because he was also a highway state trooper who saw more than his share of accidents. He told me a few years later that he was just happy all of his children were alive and that he had survived them, because he knew that was a privilege, not a guarantee by any means.
We lightened the mood with some exquisite birthday cake (it had been my uncle’s birthday a few days earlier). I enjoyed telling my grandmother and uncle about why I loved living in the city and spending my time with so many people, and how much I’ve learned from them. Then I drove back to Manhattan, my current “home.”
The week had
begun at Lake Champlain in northern New York, a place I had been going to since
I was an infant, and concluded in the home where I began life, both places acting
as enduring symbols of my grandparents’ lives of loving, laughing and learning.
Starting
tomorrow I will be teaching at the main midtown branch in Manhattan, on 37th
street. I will also teach on the Upper
West Side in the evenings, a practice I began this past week as a substitute. That gives me plenty of time to continue work
on the book.
Speaking of
which, I didn’t just teach classes in the Bronx last week. I also began teaching evenings on the Upper
West Side. They had final exams, which
was strange, because I had to review everything they’d learned with them, even
though I hadn’t been their teacher. Much
better though was the speaking portion of the test, where they each had to
converse with me for 4-5 minutes. I’d
barely met them during the previous two classes when I reviewed and gave them
the written test, but on Thursday I had the privilege of sitting across from
them, one by one, and asking them questions about themselves, using every
opportunity for a follow up question that presented itself. I was getting paid to meet people who are from around
the world, yet still my fellow residents of the same city. They were all friendly and mostly happy to
get a chance to practice speaking.
That’s what it’s about.
Connecting with the people.
Making people (1134) feel valued and interesting, and helping them
express themselves more accurately, creatively, and if possible, poetically. And when you can give them something extra,
whether it’s your knowledge, your wisdom, your creativity, or your imagination,
by all means, the time is ripe. I feel so lucky to have so much to share. There are so many pleasures, people, passages and places to tell you about.
I feel
fortunate to give people whatever I can in a live setting for several hours a
day before I put words on paper to celebrate this ability to communicate.
More is on
the way.
