One of the most vivacious women that I’ve ever met was my teacher in third and fourth grade. I was lucky enough to be her student for two years in a row. She was a firecracker of a woman, full to the brim of life. She had huge, puffy red hair, that framed her petite features and she always wore mascara and lipstick. She had short finger nails, but loved bracelets that would slide up and down her tiny wrists. After lunch while she read a chapter book to us out loud, we’d get to brush her hair or massage her shoulders. Seems weird in these times, but it just wasn’t, there wasn’t strangeness to closeness. More often than not, she was shorter than many of her students, which she laughed about. She was a Ms. Not a Miss or a Mrs. She was a Ms. A glorified Ms. Frizzile, but even better.
She also loved Bruce Springsteen in a way that I couldn’t quite understand at the time. All I knew was that my teacher loved the rock and roll music of a man that had his own jean-clad butt on the cover of his album, seemed steamy to my 8 or 9 year old mind. But she loved him without abandon and brought that love to the classroom. I’ve never forgotten.
Without a doubt, having her as my teacher for two years changed my life. In her classroom I made some of my best friends that I still have, I learned to be part of a thriving community, feeling the weight of responsibility for the first time in a way that made me feel successful. I realized that I like to write and love to read. I learned to be brave in sharing my difficulty with math. I shared with her in the joys of having red hair and looked forward to going to school. I probably decided during those two years that I wanted to grow up and be a teacher.
She knew my entire family, and not because she’d had my older brother, or because my grandfather volunteered in her classroom, but because she created events for us to be part of and to invite our families to. We had potlucks where we’d invite anyone and everyone to come see our Spring Fling, a performance that we’d been working on for months. It all felt great, with a hint of fear because she was working right along with us and we didn’t want to let her down. All of it was true-to-the-core community building, small town living, and the type of learning that make you realize tests can be full of shit.
To this day, the songs that we learned in her class, by artists other than Bruce Springsteen, have carried me through trials and tribulations. My girls have heard me sing Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” countless times when I am tapping into my reservoir of songs that won’t distract them from falling sleep. Still a great message in that song after all these years.
More recently, Tom Paxton’s “The Last Thing on My Mind” has been on constant play in my head. We learned it one year for a Spring Fling and I’m certain I can remember her shining eyes brimming with tears as we sang. As a kid, I thought we were making her proud because we were singing so well, but as an adult and I sing those lyrics to myself, I can’t help but wonder who she was thinking about as we sang our hearts out. It’s a heartbreakingly beautiful song that I’ve loved for decades. It is very much about saying goodbye.
When my sister-in-law Geneviève was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in May of 2015 and everything felt sad and hard, I slowly felt myself shift. I essentially found myself on shaky ground, not sure how to respond to people’s questions about her health, my brother’s state of mind, and “how we’re all doing.” Because when somebody is dying, or fighting to live, and there isn’t a pretty and gorgeous anecdote to end on, it’s easier to say nothing at all. And that’s what I did. I just stopped….or at least stopped digging much deeper and let the color, that I typically see and feel so clearly, slip away.
I spent as much time as she’d accept and as I could with Geneviève during her last months. It still wasn’t enough, I still don’t feel like I got a fair shake at getting to know and love her the way sister-in-laws should. But damn if I didn’t try.
It has been a little over a month since Geneviève died and I still absolutely don’t know how to answer the questions that come with squinty, sad faces. I do know that the color that makes me who I am is seeping back in. I’m forever changed, but I’m also still me, a version of who I’ve always been. Perhaps peppered with more knowledge about living and loving.
Tonight I found myself listening to Bruce Springsteen’s Human Touch album because I’ve learned as an adult who The Boss is. My dad gave me the CD as a gift when I was a teenager and although my favorite song on the album was “Pony Boy,” tonight I’m moved by the title song:
You might need somethin’ to hold on to
When all the answers, they don’t amount to much
Somebody that you could just to talk to
And a little of that Human Touch
Whenever I hear Bruce, I can’t help but think of my third and fourth grade teacher and her enthusiasm for life and how she felt no shame in being bubbly, vibrant and colorful, but mixed in all of that she was thoughtful, compassionate, and those around her felt her joy. It was impossible not to. Just as I’ve found that I’m a part-time introvert, I’ve also found that I’m someone who lives life on with my emotions on my sleeve. Moving forward without acknowledging the rough edges that have chafed against the sweetness in my life seems inconceivable. I don’t dare try.
So here we are. In thinking back to all the things that my third and fourth grade mind sponged-up from being so close to a person that welcomed hilarity, embraced style, and literally taught others to find the goodness in themselves, I’m going with that. Going forward with goodness, hilarity, and maybe a bit of style. Damn, it already feels good.
And I’ve got Ms. Chavers to thank for it.
And Bruce Springsteen.
Hannah,
How blessed I am that your mom passed your blog link on to me. I have tonight of you so often over the years and know the good you are doing in the world, in great and small ways, and what a beautiful, compassionate, talented, compassionate and loving mother, family member, teacher, community-minded person and global citizen you have blossomed into. I am honored to know you, as a child and as a woman. It is obvious from your blog (which I will continue to read) that you are open-hearted and authentic and have grown into yourself, rough edges and all, in a way that invites adventure, imagination and contemplation-you encounter the world around you with grace and enthusiasm. But you also recognize sometimes it’s just plain hard and loss is a part of the cycle and it hurts.
You brought back some really dear memories about a time when you could be who you were, and just accept each child on his or her own terms. You could be quirky or different without judgement approach each child fully in a truly holistic way. Every child contributed to the classroom community in a different way. The closeness you mention was real and made me happy to come to work each day. I love the way you captured how music can have such an impact, even at times you don’t expect it to. And how it comforts and soothes and makes you laugh out loud. I also love the part about the Spring Fling and how we all came together to put it on. It was good to have family gatherings around children’s events. These times made me happy.
As for Genevieve’s passing, we were all so saddened by it and feeling helpless. I am so glad you got to spend some precious time with her and that she, in her time on earth, affected you so deeply. I am also glad to know that music and your own shaping of ideas about life’s challenges comforted you to some extent.
Thank you for sharing so much of yourself in your writing. It validates so many things for me, not to mention the fact that tests may be necessary but they don’t capture the essence of what is important in education-connections, confidence along with competence, and helping each child discover the gift within and nurture that. Thanks so much for reminding me, Hannah. Please keep writing, Hannah. You have a distinctive voice and it needs to be heard. Love, Sherry