Teachers Come in All Shapes and Sizes

If I close my eyes, I can see you reading these pages propped up against your pillow. A blanket is lying lightly across your lap. It is gray and soft with fringe, with one tangled piece on the bottom right-hand corner. A notepad and a number-two pencil are lying diagonally on top of your nightstand, next to a box of Kleenex. I can hear the muted sounds of voices coming from the TV, its volume turned down low. Another of you is sitting at a glass-topped table in a yard filled with wind chimes and hummingbird feeders. There is a half-eaten sandwich — turkey on rye with tomato — and an almost-empty glass of cold green tea precariously perched on the table's edge. Your black Labrador retriever is pacing by the fence, barking at something you can't see. And one of you is coming home from work, riding a crowded subway train, bumping up against the person next to you. Both of you are so used to the jostle and bump that you ignore the contact.

I wonder about you. There are things I don't know. But one thing I do know is that there were moments in your life that defined you as a person. A random event, an accidental meeting, or a surprising revelation — they could be anything. These moments might have caused you to veer right or left, broke your heart, or ignited your imagination. They arrived in the guise of an old man sitting on a park bench feeding the pigeons, or in a classroom humming with electric lights, or perhaps on the wag of a lost dog's tail. No matter how they came, they changed who you are and who you would become.

Please allow me to share one such moment in my life with you.

It was summertime, somewhere between the fourth of July and the beginning of August. I remember that because my family spent most of August at the shore wading knee-deep in salty water and building sand castles — at least that's what my sister and I did. My mother sat under an umbrella reading true romance novels, and my father, when he was there, was at the Shamrock, third stool from the door, guzzling cold beer washed down with a shot of whiskey. But on the day I am remembering, the girls in my neighborhood were jumping rope. I can see us clearly — Jennie with her long blond hair, Barbie with her perfectly pressed knee-length shorts and matching blouse, and me standing at the end of the rope turning in time to the rhythm of words.

"Strawberry shortcake, cream on top, tell me the name of your sweetheart."

I can hear the sound of the rope like a sharp crack as it hit against the sidewalk. Jennie was jumping, one foot then the other, showing off. Her bangs were falling over one eye, and she lifted her hand to brush them away. I look harder at the image in my mind. Katie, Barbie, Mary, and Andy were standing near the curb with their arms crossed, watching. Barbie's eyes were narrowed, searching for any misstep. She was one of the older girls — a sheriff of sorts. I was the steady ender — the girl whose feet got tangled up in the rope as I tried to jump, but my feet never left the ground. I couldn't jump, but I didn't want to be left sitting on the stoop, so I always volunteered to turn the rope. As I picture the scene on that day, the other end was tied to the lamppost.

I think back and remember that as Jennie jumped from one foot to the other without missing, a wide smile had spread across her face. She was not only a good jumper; she was the queen of Double Dutch. As she was about to tell us the name of her sweetheart, the rope jerked slightly and she missed. An angry red flame appeared in my line of vision as she had come running over to me, hands on her hips.

"You did that on purpose, Sophie!" she shouted.

I shut my eyes and picture the rope wound tightly around my hand, and I remember how the blood had pulsated in my fingers. The boys, that day, as most others, had been playing stoop ball, but I don't remember hearing the sound of the ball bouncing against the step. They must have stopped their game to watch us. A girl fight was something to see. Time seemed to stretch. I remember the distorted image of a face stamped on silly putty popping into my mind. I liken it now to Munch's Silent Scream. Then I recall hearing one of the other girls yelling for us to keep playing. "Knock it off," she had said, "it's Mary's turn."

"Cinderella dressed in yella, went downtown to kiss a fella, how many kisses did she receive ... one ... two ..."

I had then begun to turn the rope again, thwack-thwacking it against the sidewalk. The boys had gone back to throwing the Spaldeen against the steps. It was a game of points. I remember hearing someone snicker. It was Gary, the boy who lived in the apartment across the courtyard from my family. If I looked out my parlor window, I could see into his kitchen.

"Yeah, like someone is going to kiss that fatso!"

My brow had furrowed as I concentrated on turning the rope. I imagine Mary as she turned toward me without missing. Her cheeks were red, and she looked as if she might cry. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the boys who had been sitting on the stoop leap up and pretend to jump rope. I remember hearing them oink and grunt like overstuffed pigs, and I shot them a dirty look. It was all I could do. I had to concentrate on turning the rope. Mary was slowing down. Pretty soon she was going to miss. I tried to slow down the rope, trying to match the movement of her feet. But she missed anyway. It was all she could do.

I see myself throwing my end of the rope down and turning toward Gary. He had the Spaldeen in his hand — the hand with the white, shiny scar that ran down his thumb. The ball, scuffed as it was, was his prized possession. He never went anywhere without it. If he wasn't throwing it up against a wall, he was fingering it in his pocket, turning it round and round.

I remember watching him as he turned away, the ball in a tight grip. He had raised his arm to throw it against the step of Jennie's building. That's when my heart had begun to beat faster and my ears filled with a sound like rushing water. I was not brave, but I see myself so clearly — grabbing the ball from him and heaving it as far as I could. I closed my eyes and imagined its pink shape bounce and roll down the street, ending up in the sewer with all the silver foil from tossed-away gum wrappers, crushed cigarette butts, and muddy leaves.

When I had opened my eyes, Gary's fist was near my face, the scarred thumb tucked behind four bony knuckles. "You'd better go get that," he threatened.

I had started to say something back to him, but then, as if I had been standing in his apartment with its cracked linoleum floors, I saw Gary's mother sitting by the window in their kitchen. She was wearing a scarf that wrapped around her head and tied in a knot at the top. Bobby pins stuck out around the edges of brightly colored silk. Her eye, when she turned toward me, was blackened; her lower lip was split and puffy. Her red lipstick looked like red slashes across her mouth. I can still smell the smoke from her cigarette as it burned hot when she took a puff. I remember seeing beyond the kitchen. Gary was in a bedroom lying face down on a narrow bed — a twin bed, my mother called them, though there was only one in that room. The blanket lay in a heap on the floor, reminding me of wilted lettuce. Gary had placed a pillow over his head. There was no cover on it, so I could see the blue and white ticking. He was kicking hard against the mattress. The sheet was thin and frayed. There was a hole in the bottom of his left shoe. I remember hearing the uneven steps of his father as he moved toward the door leading to the hall. Then a creak as it opened and a slam as it shut tightly. I heard Gary's father thundering down the two flights of marble steps that led to the lobby with its tarnished brass handrails and smudged glass door. The building was pre-war and the steps were worn in the middle from so many feet going up and down over the years, but they were still shiny around the edges.

It was the shine at the edges of those worn-out steps that had made me say, "I'll go get your stupid ball."

I had run as fast as I could down the street past the two-storied homes that lived next to the taller apartment buildings like uneasy neighbors. I was desperate to find the ball before it reached the sewer. I remember crying, but I didn't know why.

Even as a child, I knew I had learned something on that long summer day, but I didn't know what. My feelings and thoughts were like my feet during a game of jump rope — tangled up. It wasn't until much later in life I realized I had been given a gift.

Teachers were abundant as they warmed themselves in the sun that afternoon. They sat on stoops dressed like children in short pants and faded T-shirts. They perched like pigeons on telephone wires and waved waggling fingers like the long stems of flowers that grew in clay pots on the fire escapes. They sparkled like fireflies after dark. They talked among themselves a calliope of voices ringing in my ears, dizzying me, causing me to sit on the curb, the Spaldeen tucked safely in my pocket and hang my head, my hands folded as if in prayer until a lady pulling a shopping cart filled with brown paper bags, the lacy tops of carrots peeking out the top, stopped and asked if I were lost.

I remember her smiling and reaching out her wrinkled hand, a simple gold band on her wedding finger. She helped me up and then went on her way, the wheels of the cart squeak, squeaking down the street.

People come and go in our lives. They bump into us on a subway car and turn the other way; they live upstairs and we know them by the thump thumping of their feet as they pace across the floor; they call for us through the open window to come out and play; they stand in front of a room, eyes sparkling, a microphone in their hand; they comfort us when we cry in our beds, raise a fist, or show us the flat of their hand; they help us to our feet — each teacher gifts us, offering a small package that we can tear open or save for another day.

I remember someone once asking me how it felt to be a steady ender, the person who always turned the rope but didn't jump. I could tell that she had been a Double Dutch Queen. We recognize each other even after all these years.

I looked at her over my cup of tea and smiled. "It was a gift," I said.

Hermann Melville wrote: "We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow man; and among those fibers as sympathetic threads our actions run as cause, and they come back as effects."

I close my eyes and see myself as a child sitting on the curb with my hands folded in prayer. My hair was in braids that day, though one was crooked, the ribbon undone. My white Keds were scuffed at the toe, my blouse wrinkled, a messy little girl, imperfect on the outside but longing to be gorgeous.

I don't know how long I sat on the curb that day, or on the sidewalk or in the street, clasping my hands and fingering the ball in my pocket. I don't know that I had ever seen the woman with her cart before or after she helped me to my feet. I might have looked for her from time to time as I walked next to mother as we shopped from store to store, gathering fruits and vegetables here and buying milk there. Once I thought I heard the squeak of the wheels on her cart. But when I turned, no one was there.

Once in a while, I feel the sun in the same way as it rested on my shoulders when I turned the rope that day. I remember the power of being a steady ender, how I could make someone miss, and how I could steady the rope for someone else. It pulsated inside me, first growing, then shrinking in size like a beating heart.

We move in and out of our light, dancing with shapes and shadows that we create — silhouettes on a wall. If we change the position of the fingers on our hand, it changes the shape of everything, just as if we change our thoughts we can change who we are and who we become.

We didn't jump rope after that summer. We grew up, moved away, separating ourselves from the rhythmic slap of the rope and chanting of children's voices, from each other. I don't know if Gary would recognize me if we passed each other on the street. But on that shimmering summer day, a door opened and we stood soul to soul. I saw his pain spilled across the cracked linoleum like the contents of a shattered glass. And somewhere in the corner of the room, something sparkled and I saw the shiny edge of his hope.

Have you ever stood in someone's inch of light and seen their soul? It's possible, you know. A door opens — an invitation to step inside. Don't be afraid, go ahead. You've been invited to share this sacred space, to bear witness, to offer or accept a gift that only you can open.

The First Time Jesus Winked at Me

Wink: to close one eyelid and open it quickly as a signal (Webster's New World Dictionary). Numinous: Used to describe encounters with the holy, (V): to wink or nod

I'll begin by telling you another story. It's one I've told before, so if you know it, please bear with me. The context is different, so therefore, it will have changed in some way.

Storytelling is a form of alchemy, you see. By adding a word here or there, or by subtracting a detail, you transform it. I've met someone, another teacher in my life, who can sit and chat with those who have crossed over as if she were having tea in their parlor. She sees angels, their pink and gold wings gently beating in time to our hearts. And I think she might have sat at a table once or twice with Jesus. She told me that in a former life I was an alchemist. I had the miraculous power to change one thing into something else, something better.

In my dreams, I remember that power, and I wake up with tears streaming down my face for things I have lost. At times I feel impotent in the face of my humanity.

Rumi once said, and I am purposefully misquoting him, exchanging one word for another, so please forgive me as I try to untangle my life, "Your task is not to seek for what is lost (his word is love) but merely to seek and find all the barriers that you have built."

This story is about the first time Jesus winked at me. I was in the fourth grade and trying to make sense out of my seemingly nonsensical life. Our family had secrets, you see. There was never a beginning, a middle, or an end to the whispers and innuendoes that swirled around like dust mites streaming through a window. I didn't know what to make of my uncle's sly winks and my mother's unfinished sentences. So I constructed my understanding like a wobbly tower of blocks. So now, here is my story.

The overhead lights were humming. They dimmed for a second and then glared back on, giving me a headache. I had glanced out the window. It was one of those steel gray days, midwinter, and the smell of snow was in the air. It was something I had learned from my father. He was better than the weatherman. He could stick his head outside the window and smell a change in the air.

I hadn't wanted to go to school that day. We were to give oral presentations about our fathers. I didn't know what I would say. But my mother would have none of it. On this day of all days, she hardly glanced at the thermometer that I had carefully run under hot water and patted dry. She ignored the cough I had perfected throughout the night. "Get dressed," she had said. There was no room for argument. You had to know when you could press your luck.

I remember hearing the girl who sat behind me whispering to the boy next to her, the sound of paper crinkling as they passed a note to someone else. Sister Grace wrapped her knuckles on her desk. It was a warning to be quiet.

Teresa was standing in front of the classroom. Her blouse was so white it hurt my eyes to look at her. She was telling us about her father, who was a foreman on the job, about how he told everyone what to do and how he brought presents home to her and her sister every day. Sister Grace thanked her and said that her father sounded like a nice man. Teresa curtsied and walked back to her desk, first row, first seat. She smoothed the back of her skirt and then sat down.

The room was quiet except for the hum of lights. I glanced out the window again. It had begun to snow. When I had looked back, Sister Grace was looking around the room. I see myself dressed in my school uniform, a dark blue jumper, a white peter pan-collared blouse. I see myself shrinking into my seat. The sister's flat black gaze had landed on me. She didn't smile when she told me it was my turn. I remember touching my cheek to see if it were hot. I looked down at my scuffed shoes, thinking I should have worn my polished ones. I felt everyone looking at me, and I heard the sister say, "Sophie!" in her I'm-not-fooling-around voice. When I looked up, she was standing next to me, her fingers tapping an impatient tune on my desk. Rosary beads hung from her habit. The face of Jesus had been buried in the folds of her skirt. I stood up on rubbery legs and walked to the front of the classroom, her gaze pinpricks on the back of my neck.