Writing for me has always been about personal empowerment, not about fame or fortune. That’s how my writing career started, and it is still my main goal as a writer: let the words out and see where they take you. As Robert Frost said, “No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”
In the beginning I wrote to discover what I knew. Then I wrote for myself and my best friend, Dave. I grew up next door to Dave in Queens, New York, until he turned five. His family moved away. Our parents stayed great friends. The friendship survived because on Thursdays the men met to play cards in the kitchen and the women to sew sweaters and chat in the living room. They took turns visiting one another with lifelong friends.
As teens, Dave and I would always spend part of the summer together. We shared important interests: playing baseball, chasing girls for dates, blue ribbons on the track team, and a Regents diploma. During the school year, it was frequently more satisfying to write long letters to one another about girls, sports, school, and our domineering fathers than to do anything else. Our moms faithfully exchanged our letters every Thursday. We called it the “Pocketbook Mail Express.” No stamps needed, just the trials and tribulations of life-and-death teenage issues. We wrote volumes. The writing was extremely cathartic and highly invisible. Only our eyes ever saw what we wrote.
Our fathers were card carrying members of the Greatest Generation ever—hard workers, honest and loyal. They worked for the future of their kids, but their kids were supposed to be seen and not heard. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, mothers who believed in us, and fathers who wanted us to be near-perfect. And we weren’t.
If we earned B’s, “Why don’t you have all A’s?” If we won a red ribbon in a race, “Why didn’t you win a blue ribbon?” Our best was never good enough. We didn’t feel like our fathers believed in us.
When I became a high school senior, we had to write a weekly essay. My English teacher, Ms. Starr Hacker, always scribbled an “A” on my compositions. Only the size of the “A” varied. I worked very hard in class. She wrote in my yearbook, “Good luck to a very interesting student and personality.” What made me interesting? I think that I was emerging as a writer, thanks to David and Ms. Hacker.
I decided to give back to others like Ms. Hacker did by becoming a teacher. When I told my father, he asked “Why a teacher?”
“I won’t be happy unless I’m a teacher.”
He asked, “Why do you have to be happy?”
I had no answer. I was flawed with the possibility that my father, a plumber, might not be happy with his work. He had fooled me.
My guidance counselor warned my father that I might not be college material. Nevertheless, I couldn’t wait to take English and Education courses. I knew at least three people believed in me: Mom, Dave, and Ms. Hacker—and writing played an important part in it.
I graduated from a community college, and transferred to a state college. I met my true love and we both graduated with teaching degrees. The two years that Marilyn and I were engaged, my father was worried that I would flunk out. Dad didn’t know that Marilyn made me a better student. Before mom met Marilyn, Dad said, “I don’t want you to like Marilyn.” But they did anyway.
Two weeks after graduation we married. My brother once noted that “Dad isn’t smiling in your wedding photo.”
He’s right. Before the shot was taken, Dad leaned over and said, “You should have gone to graduate school first.”
I was a successful teacher for thirty-three years. During and after my teaching years, I wrote essays for parents and teachers, and poems for children. It was never about making money. It was about corralling my experiences and making sense of them.
When my mother was dying in the nursing home, I sat down and wrote a tribute about her life to capsulate what a great mom she was. It was my last gift for her, a gift of words. At her funeral in church I read my tribute. To my amazement, the congregation stood up and clapped.
Writing is a priceless gift.
In the beginning I wrote to discover what I knew. Then I wrote for myself and my best friend, Dave. I grew up next door to Dave in Queens, New York, until he turned five. His family moved away. Our parents stayed great friends. The friendship survived because on Thursdays the men met to play cards in the kitchen and the women to sew sweaters and chat in the living room. They took turns visiting one another with lifelong friends.
As teens, Dave and I would always spend part of the summer together. We shared important interests: playing baseball, chasing girls for dates, blue ribbons on the track team, and a Regents diploma. During the school year, it was frequently more satisfying to write long letters to one another about girls, sports, school, and our domineering fathers than to do anything else. Our moms faithfully exchanged our letters every Thursday. We called it the “Pocketbook Mail Express.” No stamps needed, just the trials and tribulations of life-and-death teenage issues. We wrote volumes. The writing was extremely cathartic and highly invisible. Only our eyes ever saw what we wrote.
Our fathers were card carrying members of the Greatest Generation ever—hard workers, honest and loyal. They worked for the future of their kids, but their kids were supposed to be seen and not heard. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table, mothers who believed in us, and fathers who wanted us to be near-perfect. And we weren’t.
If we earned B’s, “Why don’t you have all A’s?” If we won a red ribbon in a race, “Why didn’t you win a blue ribbon?” Our best was never good enough. We didn’t feel like our fathers believed in us.
When I became a high school senior, we had to write a weekly essay. My English teacher, Ms. Starr Hacker, always scribbled an “A” on my compositions. Only the size of the “A” varied. I worked very hard in class. She wrote in my yearbook, “Good luck to a very interesting student and personality.” What made me interesting? I think that I was emerging as a writer, thanks to David and Ms. Hacker.
I decided to give back to others like Ms. Hacker did by becoming a teacher. When I told my father, he asked “Why a teacher?”
“I won’t be happy unless I’m a teacher.”
He asked, “Why do you have to be happy?”
I had no answer. I was flawed with the possibility that my father, a plumber, might not be happy with his work. He had fooled me.
My guidance counselor warned my father that I might not be college material. Nevertheless, I couldn’t wait to take English and Education courses. I knew at least three people believed in me: Mom, Dave, and Ms. Hacker—and writing played an important part in it.
I graduated from a community college, and transferred to a state college. I met my true love and we both graduated with teaching degrees. The two years that Marilyn and I were engaged, my father was worried that I would flunk out. Dad didn’t know that Marilyn made me a better student. Before mom met Marilyn, Dad said, “I don’t want you to like Marilyn.” But they did anyway.
Two weeks after graduation we married. My brother once noted that “Dad isn’t smiling in your wedding photo.”
He’s right. Before the shot was taken, Dad leaned over and said, “You should have gone to graduate school first.”
I was a successful teacher for thirty-three years. During and after my teaching years, I wrote essays for parents and teachers, and poems for children. It was never about making money. It was about corralling my experiences and making sense of them.
When my mother was dying in the nursing home, I sat down and wrote a tribute about her life to capsulate what a great mom she was. It was my last gift for her, a gift of words. At her funeral in church I read my tribute. To my amazement, the congregation stood up and clapped.
Writing is a priceless gift.
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