Mentors

There was always a generally shared deep sigh as the eighth grade students shuffled into Mrs. Paige’s 5th period algebra class. It was not audible, but just seemed to hover somewhere up near the grid that shielded the ceiling lights. Why we entered the room with this biased distaste for the subject is not evident to me even now. The sincerity and dedication that this woman exhibited was over the top. She would go through two entire pieces of chalk and end at the far side of the double chalkboard with her fingers white with the talc and her chiseled, dark bangs drenched with sweat. Her back toward us, there were always antics in play around the room that were distracting and hard to ignore. As she turned to face us, revealing white smudges on her nose or cheek, the snickering was then directed at her. I cannot imagine the depth of frustration and disappointment that she endured daily in her attempt to educate young growing minds. On one sunny June day, with the end of the school year fast approaching and my mind wandering, I turned my gaze from the cheerful sunlight flooding the nicely landscaped breezeway to the note being passed over my shoulder. Reading it, I was unaware of being the focused target of Mrs. Paige’s glare. The note inspired a giggle and I scribbled a response in kind. Reaching back to deliver it to my comrade, I saw that his eyes were averted to the front of the room. Slowly glancing around, I was greeted by every pair of eyes in the room including the teacher’s. My face grew hot like a flush of boiling water and no doubt became the color of beets. Mrs. Paige’s finger, the very one completely covered in chalk, pointed to the door and I heard my name attached to the order to remove myself and make my way to Mr. Keller’s office for the remainder of class. My memory is vague following the crime that I committed. Apparently a call or letter resulted in scheduling a meeting to take place with the Principal, a parent and myself. That particular meeting however, to this day is crystal clear. Seated in a cubicle with a floor length window facing the large concrete hallway outside of “the office” I sit with my head hung in shame. My mother in a chair right next to me is prepared to defend me, as I do no wrong in her book, but her comments to me do not even relate to what is about to be discussed. My thoughts are circling around the image of Mr. Keller who has not arrived yet. I am a student of Seahurst Junior High School and it has a very well respected commander and chief at the helm. He is compassionately engaged in our clubs, our student body meetings, our diverse sports program, our musical and artistic enrichment, our academic achievements and is unquestionably there to be supportive of our goals and direct us in making wise choices. He is liked by both faculty and students, which suggests that he is successful in this demanding position, good at his job. He is a man of integrity and can make you feel good just smiling at you. Note that my household was without the role model of a father figure which probably added to my desire to please this authority figure in my life. Voices outside the stuffy cubicle signal he is on his way to opening the door to our meeting. I become uncontrollably nervous. I am soaking the armpits of my blouse and hoping not to cry. His tall suit and tie entered and he closed the door with a long arm, turning and addressing me before even introducing himself to my mother, immediately instructing me to “Sit up!” As he briefly shook my mother’s hand in greeting, his gaze turned back to me and had a firm but caring way to keep my attention. I was unquestionably the focus of this exchange. “You need need to sit up and face this. You need to be accountable for your actions. Is it true that you were disruptive and disrespectful in Mrs. Paige’s class?” Drawing myself together, I answered with a clear voice, “Yes, I was.” He paused again, letting my words-

-resonate, then added with just the right amount of sincerity, “ I would not have expected that from you”. Silently I was thinking of how rude I had been saying quite hurtful things about this teacher for most of the quarter and hoped with all my being that Mr. Keller did not know how many times I had behaved badly. In earlier years, in grade school, I had found myself put out in the hall for disturbing others and labeled a troublemaker merely in the attempt to gain favor with my classmates. I could have resigned myself to believing that was just who I was but In this moment of my growth, I was able to relate to the person being mistreated with empathy and recognize I had been responsible for not respecting her. I regretted disappointing Mr. Keller. The meeting was brief, and my mother offered very few words, but what I took from it was how important it was to act in a way to gain the respect of YOURSELF. He had held up my actions for me to really look at them and SEE them as mine. Mr. Keller’s interest in me as a student that he did not believe to be of the character in which I was behaving, allowed me to become that better student, that better person. It was a bridge toward a new perspective that allowed me to change and move in the direction of maturity. As we create the patchwork quilt pieces and fit them together to become our life, it is revealing to look at those parts of our fabric that have been printed with indelible ink. I am speaking of the parts of us that reflect our moral fiber. There are parts of our character that define who we are that we can better understand by doing some self-reflection to determine who or what has influenced our thoughts, opinions and actions. Who have we looked to for guidance? Who acted as a mentor to us in our formative years? Have we found teachers who could cut through the fog and instill the hunger for knowledge? Some people emerge with the ability to see everything as their favorite color, or that everything is just waiting for them to experience it. When I meet these folks, I wonder who their mentors were. Who convinced them they held the tools to succeed at anything they desired?

“Our chief want is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we can be.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

So, I recognize two earlier inspirational characters if I re-read the chronicles of my life. I will give you a short biographical profile of each. Spoiler alert; I have become a strong female force today because of these two women. Grandmother Julia was married to a german speaking man named Paul and they resided on a farm in North Dakota in a german speaking community. I know this only because my father’s birth certificate is in German as I presume the other four brothers’ and one sister’s were also. My mother spoke fondly of taking him for rides in the car but he only would nod his head and exclaim “Dat’s good, Margie” when she spoke to him. Julia had lost her-

-husband about the time I was to enter the world. She lived with a sister that I recently learned was the nearest of ten siblings. I also only recently learned that they were immediate descendents of the North American Indigenous tribes, perhaps from Canada. This fact was not of common knowledge and I assume it was a secret protected through her life that would bring disgrace in a world of rash discrimination. The photo discovered on an ancestry website of her mother, was of a frail woman in a high neck black dress circa 1900, with long black braids framing her high cheekbones. The photo of her father in a very aristocratic suit and sporting a fine mustache, stated his given name in french that translated to ‘Modest Bird’ Cardin. Julia’s sons, with the exception of the youngest who was my father, were all difficult to get along with in my eyes as a child. Being an audience to these brothers always arguing as a core language, I think they were all quite rebellious in their youth. I could read the look in their mother’s eyes that said, “Come here child and ignore those loud unruly boys, they just need to be boys”. But I observed at these large family gatherings that the degree of respect held for the matriarch was extraordinary. The hosting daughter-in-law would call the loud group together and when all eyes rested upon Grandmother Julia at the head of the table, she would deliver a blessing in her raspy, tired voice that reflected her years as the wisdom keeper and four generations would unite in her watchful sight. I was given many chances to be in her company because my father was the one to extend himself to care for her needs as she became increasingly dependent. He would run errands for her and I would be left in her care in her quiet house in south Seattle with her quiet sister, Anais. I must have been quite small because I can remember falling asleep as she sang to me wordless songs and held me to her strong and enveloping warmth. Her company remains a physical memory. I do not recall a lot of talking. I think her language was inferred and just transmitted as love. Grandmother Rose came from Wisconsin, and was also from German heritage. She was one of many sisters and they all had a commanding presence. She came to Washington to marry Ralph Stanford, a carpenter and farmer. In addition to the farm, they became storekeepers when their two children were young. My mother and her brother watched as most of the farmland became Sea-Tac airport. My grandparents built again on Seattle’s west side and my grandmother entered the workforce. She held employment in a business that delivered sandwiches to laborers, making dozens of sandwiches even as I recall, with a broken wrist. She did not drive a car. She knew the bus routes to every place in the city. She was active in her woman’s lodge, taking me along as a toddler to meetings and card parties where I was allowed to be invisible under the tables shrouded by large linen tablecloths. She held positions of honor and attended many conventions. She carried herself as though she were of the elites. She -tailored all of her-own clothes and never began the day without making herself presentable. Before I was born, I am not aware of exactly when, but sometime prior to women being granted the vote on equal terms to men, she was publicly marching for the cause. I think this behavior of a married woman was not taken lightly in 1920 and I wonder what my grandfather thought about it. I can attest with all of my conviction that the relationship I witnessed between my grandparents was a window into mutual respect and a strong partnership between two very independent people. On occasion she could be heard banishing him to his garage where he would only exhibit contentment sharpening tools on his big pedal-operated stone, or finishing the roof on a birdhouse. There was an unspoken rule that no man was ever to clutter the kitchen and impede the progress of the meal unless invited. They had their places. They performed their skill sets unhindered but for the best interest of the partnership. My favorite memory from my days with them as a small child is a background sound. Waking in the morning, or sometimes from an afternoon nap I would hear the low murmur of their voices mixed with the radio coming from across the kitchen in the small breakfast nook. I could not decipher their words. Well, unless it was an afternoon baseball game and then the excitement they shared was clearly enough to wake me up. But on those calm mornings when I could barely hear them, I would lie there listening to the slowly flowing and hushed tones that seemed to be a beautiful duet in the key of love. These stories of my past are always in my pocket. I am aware it is not good to live in the past and I have left that tendency behind with other habits that become barriers to our happiness in the here and now. What I filter out from these stories of my Grandmothers is an explanation of some of my strengths that I may have misunderstood and called faults had I not indulged in a little self-reflection. I cite the influence of these women simmering inside of me as a young girl of six who could hold my own in a dirt bomb fight and later take the boys on in knock-down dragout fights if they verbally assaulted me or my friends. I hold these two women in honor as I recall explaining to a playmate at seven years old that her grandmother was someone to respect and if she was nicer to her she may find less visits to her behind by her big wooden spoon. I call up to them in gratitude when I am told by my adult sons that growing up under my roof, when I spoke, they knew they needed to listen. I could not have rode on into these battles without the cape they bestowed upon me with the inspiration of their example. Above all else, the love of growing my own foods and carefully maintaining the rich soil is what I hold dearest of the teachings of these hardy farm women. As a toddler always with them in the rows they tended, with unspoken language I developed an intimate connection to Mother Earth and what she can provide. Our spirits mingle when I am digging in my gardens.