I don’t generally celebrate (American) Thanksgiving. Mostly because my celebrations more closely matches how and when the Pilgrims created the holiday. That celebration was a version of Sukot, the Jewish harvest festival. More akin to Canadian Thanksgiving, which coincides with my holiday. (Think about it. What harvest would you reap in late November?)
But, I do generally give thanks- each and every day. It’s part of my daily prayer rituals- morning and evening.
But, in light of American Thanksgiving, I will share with you those mentors who made a difference in my life. Those who shared their wisdom, their time, and their love to help me become who I am. Not by making me a square box to fit a square hole. By helping me find the best (or at least pretty darned good) way to make my own way.
My first mentor was my mom’s father, Sol Kuchlik. Sol left the town of Minsk (part of the Pale of Settlement) at a very early age and made his way to the “goldene medina”- the United States. My grandfather was a self-taught guy. One who served his country in ways most of us never dream. The picture below should give you an idea. That’s former President Teddy Roosevelt and General (of the Armies) Jack Pershing.
My grandfather was the one who nurtured my love of learning. Or, maybe even instilled it. Because from the time I can remember (that’s pretty close to age 2), he grilled me on arithmetic. And, not just how much is 2+2. Because he wanted the answer as fast as he dished out the questions. Instantly. And, as I got older, the math got far more complex. As it turns out my grandfather didn’t always know the answers to the questions he threw at me. But, he knew me well enough to know if I were guessing or unsure. (My grandmother shared this fact with me about a decade later.) And, then, he’d be on me like white on rice. (Oh, and that was an expression he taught me, too.)
My grandfather also had a wonderful car, a full-sized Nash Rambler. Which he used to drive me to museums, to Coney Island, to the Canarsie Pier, all the while peppering me with math questions and information about the sights. (Including the now defunct Floyd Bennett Field on the border of Brooklyn and the Rockaways.)
He never doubted I would make that artificial kidney. But, his Parkinson’s disease made it impossible for him to continue our talks, despite his L-Dopa, despite having his brain frozen by Dr. Irving Cooper (St. Barnabus). While I was exploding outward, his thoughts were locked inward. Forever.
He’s why I have a living will.
Right about the time my grandfather was leaving this world, I met my next mentor. I had just about finished my 6th grade year with Ms. Kessler. Ms. Kessler was a teacher who tried to push me just a little harder. (I was bored s..tless and let my class and the teachers know that every minute of the day.) Ms. Kessler got me to write my first poem. (I had written an essay, but she showed me how what I had written was actually written in perfect iambic pentameter.) And, then worked with me to hone it into a wonderful poem. And, yes, I still write poetry. Thank you, Ms. Kessler! And, I also produced a term paper about the USSR (83 pages written in very tiny letters) for her…And, now I was “requested” to appear in Miss Katzman’s (the absolute scariest teacher in the school) office after lunch.
Miss Katzman (whose real name is Sue Finkelstein; Katzman was her nom de plume at school) informed me that she was to be my teacher for English and Social Studies (both) for the next three years. And, that my habit of doing (not) enough to get by was over. It was clear to everyone at HANC that I could perform and she would hear no excuses to the contrary.
She wanted to know what I expected from this yeshiva. When I told her, she didn’t laugh. She just said I had a far cry to go to attain that. She was positive that I would earn that honor with more (than just a little more) effort on my part. My response was that the school’s system was rigged and it would never happen. She promised it would.
So, I worked hard and she kept me busy for the next 3 years. (Ms. Katzman ensured that I could no longer have enough time to feel bored.) I wrote many papers, including a thesis on the (then) only father and son in the White House. (Come on, you know that was- John and John Quincy Adams.) I learned a lot- in her classes and every other one I attended.
It’s where my system of taking notes in a lecture developed- simply writing down the first (non-article) word and a key word in every sentence. And, then going home to rewrite my notes (with two fountain pens; one with red ink, the other contained black ink) every night. (Until I obtained my typewriter, which replaced my pens- and that was subsequently retired by my computer years later.)
Ms. Katzman and I had many discussions. About colleges. About my research (which included by then my hydroponic science fair submission and other ‘crazy’ concepts), my idea about going to college (early, since I planned to spend many years in post-graduate education), my volunteering to help register folks to vote and for other (then considered radical) activities.
Right before graduation, Ms. Katzman regaled me with a present. An I.D. bracelet. To remember her in the future. (OK. I am dating myself. These were the tokens presented to members of the opposite sex as a demonstration of the bond that endures. At least that was the way it worked for yeshiva “bochurs”.)
Her interest, her coaching, her helping me work out my goals clearly set me on the proper educational path for my life. And, for that I think of Ms. Katzman often.
Because Ms. Katzman didn’t just teach me academics. She nurtured my concept to fight for those who get overlooked in spite of their actions, their abilities, and their rights. Because she did it for me- and I know what it feels like to have something yanked away that you deserve.
(Just so you know, I had other mentors. Cary Rollner and his partner, I. Harry Mazur, (who I affectionately called HarryCary) and the estimable Arthur Lipper.)
Thanks to them all.
