Being Alive

Behold, one of the most precious photos, one of my dearest memories, a guidepost that I cherish. This is my yearbook post from Russell Fritz. He taught me so much about being alive. As I head off to Europe, I want to reflect on our friendship and how I learned from him about extracting love from hatred, and good times from bad ones.  In the next few days, I expect to have some very serious moments (take care of my mom and of my co-teacher Terri; I don't know which of the two are more worried about me!) I also hope to have some beautiful ones where I carry my gratitude for life and find strength in genuine connections between people.

In ninth grade, he was my English teacher. I hated him with a passion. He talked down to us, and wanted us to list (in October) all the "choice books" we planned to read for the year. How could I do that? I read a novel or two a day! (Note: I don't do that anymore...)

A wise guidance counselor, Dr. Faust, told me that part of being alive was learning to work with people we didn't like. As a writer, I could use my experiences in Fritz's class to analyze student behaviors and interactions. I might not learn a lot of English, but I would learn a lot of sociology. And anyway, Dr. Faust added, I might find, over time, that I had a lot in common with my teacher.  By the end of the year, Fritz and I had found a beautiful common ground in our shared passion for theater. 

Fast forward to senior year of high school...AP English was soiled by an even worse teacher. Dr. Clayton had  recently changed his name from Dr. Boring, but the poor man clearly was struggling with identity issues and kept asking me if my mother could help him get a job at Hofstra. I was uncomfortable, angry, and unmotivated.  The "sociological study" line wasn't going to work with me; twelfth graders are less malleable than freshmen!

So, somehow (thanks, Mom!) I got up the guts to ask for permission to do an independent study in English. Dr. Faust told me that the only teacher he thought would be brave enough to take on this challenge was Fritz.  I asked him, and he said, "Sounds like a challenge. Challenges are what make life worth living." Sure enough, my former nemesis turned into a savior. Life is sometimes about turnarounds.

When I was administering the spelling bee on Tuesday, I almost started chuckling. (Did any of the six of you notice?) You see, one of the earlier words was "hobnob". I still have a precious letter that Fritz left for the principal requesting permission for this independent study.  Its opening sentence read: "While you were out hobnobbing with the elite, Miss Emily and I dropped by to discuss and intriguing plan."  Thank goodness for his bravery, and thank goodness for a principal and an era when risks like this were welcome. 

We met at lunch most days and talked about Christina Rossetti, Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson, Elizabeth Barrettt Browning and the Brontë sisters.   (Caroline W, you would have loved these chats!)  I learned how to proofread and revise and love the process, rather than rushing because I assumed I was right the first time. I learned about lifestyles so different from my own, and passions so connected to mine. And I learned that my friends accepted my intellectual quirkiness enough to volunteer to spend a spring afternoon listening to my final presentation. 

It was a perfect day, that June 16th, 1992. I shared my research, we surprised Dr. Faust with a birthday cake, and then Fritz, the Fausts, my parents and I went out for dinner at the elegant Davenport Press. I felt so grown up. I felt like I could do anything, be anyone. I felt alive and teeming with possibility.

The next day, Fritz didn't return to school. In fact, he didn't make it to my graduation where I was giving the valedictory speech. I didn't hear from him all summer and I went off to Bryn Mawr College without a goodbye. 

It turns out he was sick and retired soon thereafter. But this was not the end of our story. On November 15th, I was very proud to be performing in a Faculty Student Chamber Music Recital. I was playing the piano part for a Beethoven wind quintet. This was a big deal. It was also the day of the first snowfall of winter, gentle in all its serenity. I was wild with adolescent hyperactivity and I didn't exactly notice him in the audience. I saw a big white haired Santa look-alike who reminded me of Fritz but mostly I was just thinking about scale passages and tempi.

Sure enough, though, Fritz was in the audience. I'll never forget his hug. Home, it was a hug of home, of safety, of empathy, of life. And that day, he told me that he was going to retire and move close by.

Thought college, we saw each other a lot. After college, we supported each other through depressions. He took an intense course on Holocaust history and called me crying on several occasions. He gave me bravery to get emotional support. Later, I returned the favor and found support for him. For a short period, he had an eight year old boy from Mississippi living in his house and I helped them figure out clothing. (Hilarious!). We went to museums, we had lunches, we laughed and when he got pancreatic cancer, we cried.

I composed a song for him. Some of the lyrics dance in my head a lot lately:

"May you know the joy you've given.

May you feel the love you've shared.

May you hear the words now risen,

And remember how I cared

About you, my friend,

And the times we shared together.

May you feel the love.

May you think about past mischief,

All those tricks and all those pranks,

Remember past journeys

And know that I give thanks

To you, my friend,

For the times we shared together.

May you feel the love.

Now hold my hand;

I am hear beside you.

In these dark uncertain times

Let the love we share help guide you.

I'll remember the silliness, 

Remember the laughs,

Remember the many hours that had to pass...

Now I know that you are in me

In the language that I use,

In the laughter that runs flowingly,

In my zany sentimental views.

You are there, my friend!

And you always will be.

May you know the love."

Fritz died on the day of the Columbia Shuttle disaster. Right before, in our last conversation, he gave me a toilet paper roll filled with his favorite poems, written in his own penmanship...and the mandate to set these songs to music when I am pining for him.  He also reminded me that I owed him lots of lunches and that I need to pass the mentoring friendship onto the next generation.  Part of that, Fritzy, is how I experience being alive, now.

A few years after Fritz died, I found myself in the least safe situation I could imagine: I was in Romania without my passport and medicine, assuming that my baggage had been stolen by a fake "Country Inn." The real hotel in Brasov wouldn't let me sign in until I showed them my passport but it was already getting dark and I had no way to get back to the country inn and reclaim my bags, if that was even possible. I had also been speaking Romanian for about five days and my head was about explode. 

 Into the hotel walked a Fritz look-alike (more Fritz than Santa) and behold! He spoke French! A language which I had spoken for years and years, not one which I had learned in six weeks. I burst into tears and asked this stranger for help. With a twinkle in his eye, he said (and I translate) "Sounds like a challenge. Challenges are what make life worth living."  (Sound familiar?). This kind man, this guardian angel of sorts, took me to the place where my bags were, threatened the owner until my bags were returned and then saw me safely into the hotel room. The next morning, he was gone by 5:30 a.m. I never thanked him the way I wanted to.

Last week, I had the most beautiful dream. I was walking up to an old, beloved teacher's classroom and when I walked in, I realized that it was my own one. The floors and walls and ceilings were covered with chalk graffiti art and wisdom quotes. There were no chairs or desks. I realized in the dream that I had supplanted the generation of my mentors. I felt sad, and honored, humbled, and proud. I looked out the window and wanted to remember how I saw the view as a child. Instead, I heard Fritz's voice and turned around. There he was, in my dream, with those twinkling eyes filled with mischief and wisdom.

"Keep learning what it is to be alive, and then remind your kids to do all they can to life their lives. This is it, Sweet Em. Go to Poland and learn your next life lesson. Then pass it on. And compose a song while you are at it. Lunch is on me..."

I'm on the airplane right now. I don't know what lessons are ahead. A friend of mine, Mair, wrote me a good luck email hoping I will find answers to some of my questions.  I know I will focus on whatever life-affirming messages I can extract from the grief.