Memorabilia

.....At the risk of this being self-serving (which it really is not), I am publishing here on my blog a letter which I received a while ago from a former student at North Shore H.S.
I am publishing it, because I do not want it to be lost; it does shed some illumination about a part of my life, now gone.  This, like all the other posts on this blog since 2007, will be published in book form a few months from now, and thus, hopefully, be available to my progeny, my grand-progeny, and my soon to be great-grand-progeny after I pass through this world and, and as Hamlet would have it, "...the rest is silence."

Hey, Doc:

Funny how things come around . . . I’ve wanted to get in touch with you many times over the years.  Seeing Joel and Bobby (your handsome sons) at North Shore’s 50^th was a great – and unexpected  – pleasure.  We talked about you, and the experience refreshed a lot of lapsed memories.

I don’t know if Joel told you, but I was very disappointed at the anniversary celebration to find stacks of booklets on the cafeteria tables featuring articles from former North Shore students honoring their most memorable teachers – and not to see your name among them.  After speaking with several other people there, I learned that, like me, most of them had never received any communication from the district soliciting submissions for this booklet.   I know I can speak for many other former students of yours in saying that in my book, your name is at the top. 

Joel also sent me a newspaper article about the medals you earned -- and finally received – from the Navy.  I have to acknowledge that I’ve neglected to give you something I owe you, too:  I never let you know what a tremendous impact you had on my life.

I remember the day I walked into your classroom for the first time.  It was 1971; I was a sophomore, and the class was Shakespeare – held in the portable structure off of the “J” wing.  I arrived late to class (a trademark), and recall you looking over the top rim of your glasses at me from the front of the room, but saying nothing.  I wondered whether you were going to give me a hard time.  I had all but dropped out of most of my classes, and was taking home failing grades in those I did attend, so I was accustomed to conflicts with teachers.  But this was the first time any English elective had been offered to sophomores.  I was interested, though I never had any intention of actually doing any work.

Within a few moments after I settled into a seat at the back of the room, you began to recite from Macbeth in flawless Elizabethan English:

            To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time . . .

I was immediately stirred by the beauty of the language and your perfection of the tongue – so much so, that I went home that night and memorized the entire soliloquy.  For days afterward, I was hoping you would call on me in class and ask me to recite those lines.  Of course you had no way of knowing that I’d learned them, and I was way too cool to come right out and tell you how you’d inspired me from the minute I heard you speak (Ah, but I was so much cooler then . . .).

I learned to love Shakespeare that semester, and I was determined to sign up for any course you were teaching.  I was able to get into your poetry class the following year, where I devoured Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Edwin Arlington Robinson and Christopher Marlowe, for openers. 

I remember hearing you recite from Andrew Marvell:

            The grave’s a fine and private place,

            But none, I think, do there embrace.

. . . and commenting: “unless, of course, you’re a necrophiliac.”  I was secretly delighted to be one of the few who got the joke.

And of course I remember sitting around your living room, playing Suzanne, engaging in philosophical discourse with the likes of Raphael and Bob Blitz (and that attractive son you’d been hiding at Cornell), and knowing I was welcome. 

In addition to the medals you earned in the service, there are several others you deserve:

!One for bringing to life for me the beauty of language and literature

!One for treating me with respect, even when I had no credentials

!One for appreciating my individuality and encouraging me to develop my talents

and

!One for the high standards you set by your own example

I know that you’ve earned these medals many times over from the students you’ve taught over the years. 

As for my life today, I am the editor at a public relations boutique in Great Neck.  It’s not Shakespeare, but it does keep my writing skills sharp.  Prior to joining this firm I taught English courses as an adjunct at New York Tech, and worked as contributing editor on a book titled, Best Wineries in North America (hey, you write what you know). 

As I was raising my three boys, Tim (27), Ian (21) and Seth (16), I went to school at NYIT because it was cheap and conveniently located.  After graduating summa cum laude, I applied for the doctoral program at Columbia, and was rejected in spite of a 4.0 average.  I applied again the next semester, and was rejected again.  Determined to get in, I enrolled as a non-matriculated student, fulfilled my foreign language requirements and took courses in Anglo-Saxon Language and Literature and The Great Books.  I did well enough for the Ivy League cabal to let me into a terminal master’s program.  I had hoped at the time to continue on for a Ph.D. somewhere else, but children, and eventually a long divorce, made it impossible (though I’m not dead yet).  I am now (happily!) remarried to David French, son of Dr. John French, who I’m sure you remember.  As I said, it’s funny how things come around. 

I would love to hear from you – or better yet, see you one of these days.  Oh – my guitar playing, which was never very good, is a little rusty these days, but I still sing every chance I get. 

With love,

Deborah (Benson) French