Nov. 9, Anniversary of Kristallnacht, 1938

Shards of the "Night of Broken Glass" remain in our collective memory . I heard stories on NPR's Weekend Edition Saturday today, & read stories in in the New Yorker and the New York Times. These stories are from survivors, historians,  and journalists. They are about both the evil then, and the rise of anti-semitism in Europe now. 

Sometimes I feel despair. But I find comfort from those who did what they could to combat evil, and those who strive to heal the world now.  I think Hans Christian Anderson's depiction in the fairy tale The Snow Queen is a good parallel. If you haven't read it take time to do so. 

There are shards of glass that have entered peoples eyes and hearts that cause them to turn away from each other. But the love and pursuit of goodness from a child, who rescues her friend from the frozen cruelty, overcomes the evil.

I wrote a story about a friend, now of blessed memory who was a righteous gentile in the Czech resistance. It is a fictional account I based on his story. It is about love.

There is always a chance to heal the world.

My Best Teaching Moment

A story: Joe was in my freshman Santa Ana, California English class. He never removed his uniform watch cap.  A handsome Chicano kid, he sat legs forward, slumped in his chair and always stared straight at me while he turned in nothing when I called for assignments. Except:

One day about 3/4 into the semester, Joe sauntered, vato style (leg forward, sort of moving head rhythmically, and adding some drag from the next leg) before striding up to my desk to hand in an essay.

The handwriting was exquisite and before setting the paper down I read the very beautifully written first paragraph. I looked up and saw that he’d watched me read it.

“Surprised, Mrs. Fishman?” His for show smirk was betrayed by what I believed was true pride that he had impressed me. I asked him to wait after the bell rang.

Joe, you can still get a decent grade in this class. You are observant; you clearly know the material, and I will do anything I can to help you. Hand in some back assignments. You can not only pass but get a good grade!

He didn’t. On the last day of school that year, I talked to him again. 

Joe, you gave yourself an F; I wanted to give you an A.

He walked away, forgetting the vato stride since there was no one else to observe it.

That was the year Jarvis’s Bill, Proposition 13 passed in California. Ronald Reagan was governor and funding for schools was cut mercilessly. Both Paul and I were newer teachers and were therefore “riffed,” a new verb for Reduction in Force. 

Paul had a summer job in Portland, I loved this area and got a teaching job in Beaverton. Three years later I went to Southern California and stopped to visit my friends and colleagues at Santa Ana H.S. 

As I walked through the hall, I saw Joe walking past. Joe! I called.  He saw me and answered: 

“Hey Mrs. Fishman, look what I’m taking.” He held up the green shiny covered freshman English book. “I’m graduating this year.”

That was the best teaching moment I’d ever had. 

Summer to Autumn

Early August, evening, and I heard Crickets. I was so happy to hear the sound; yet something evoked a sweet ache of nostalgia. What for? Intense heat? Smoky air? We in Portland have been spared the worst of the 3 digit temperatures, and the worst of the dangerous air days, but knowing how pervasive it’s been, I still was not loving this Summer, intellectually. Emotionally, I still do.

Summer with light lingering into the late evening hours was transitioning. I am sad for its departure, yet glad. Perhaps I was still incongruently feeling my years of retuning to my faculty schedule in the schools? (That was a long time ago)!

Or maybe I instinctevely felt my own years are moving to the end of Autumn, with Winter close by, and far fewer Spring, or Summers ahead. When I set out to write about my ache of nostalgia, triggered by cricket song, I hadn’t intended it to be about my own fading light, my own diminishing verve. 

I had in mind trees turning brilliant colors, and leaves then fading to brown and flying off;  exposing bare branches  against a grey sky. We move to longer nights, and colder air. I too will fade; we all do. So I’ll live every moment with joy and delight. Sing on crickets!