Today's guest post for Vivianna Week is from Sammy Goode. The story that she shares is so touching and so amazing that I actually cried. So I hope you have some tissues handy. I think that I would have been honored to have Sammy as Vivianna's kindergarten teacher. Thank you for sharing this Sammy.
Mary’s Story
I want to tell you a story…a story about the resilience of
children…of how they can bear extraordinary pain and continue to love unconditionally.
Before I begin this story I want you to know three
things: 1) this is a completely true story. I had the amazing privilege of being a part
of this little girl’s life for one year, over 10 years ago and in all that
time, she has never left my memory—never.
2) Her name has been changed—this “little” girl is now 16 and, while I
am quite sure she would not mind her story being told, I have no way to contact
her so we will respect her privacy by using a false name. 3) This is not a happy story in the classic
sense, but rather a story of courage and strength and the amazing power of
love.
I had been teaching kindergarten for 5 years in a large
school in the suburbs of Washington D.C.
Unlike some towns, this one was poorer than most—a sort of black mark on
the county. I lived two towns away and
am ashamed to admit that every time I crossed over the border of the town in
question, I thanked god that I did not live there. The town reeked of poverty, cried out with
neglected and forgotten people, and screamed for someone, anyone to notice. But this town also held some of the most
precious children to ever grace the earth.
Mary was one of them.
Mary was tiny for her age.
As a five year old, she barely reached the middle of my thigh and she
was painfully thin. No matter what
season, Mary always wore the same thing to school, a short sleeved shirt that
was gray with age, a dark blue cardigan and a pair of jeans with patched holes
in both knees. On top of her neatly
plaited hair sat a pink bow that had turned slightly gray with age. On her feet Mary wore a pair of sneakers that
were taped with silver duct tape to cover the holes.
By spring of her kindergarten year, Mary’s grandmother would
cut the tops of the shoes away, leaving a modified sandal—not to give Mary
ventilation but so that her toes stopped hurting as the shoes were almost a
full size too small, and Mary was not due for her new pair until August, right
before the beginning of the next school year.
The only big thing on Mary were
her feet—they spoke of a little girl that should have long, graceful ebony
limbs, made strong and sinewy from good nutrition. Should…but did not.
Every day Mary came to school and had free breakfast and
free lunch. These two meals were most
assuredly the only meals Mary most days.
Mary’s grandmother worked the evening shift and left Mary in the care of
a neighbor woman. The woman often sat
Mary in front of the television and went about her evening, having already
eaten her evening meal. Mary simply went
without. At 9:30 in the evening, the
neighbor would take the spare key to the next-door apartment where Mary and her
grandmother lived and let Mary in, watch her get ready for bed and say
goodnight. She would then lock Mary into
the apartment and go next door to her own.
At about 2am, Mary’s grandmother would come home from work
to a sleeping Mary, who had been alone for over 4 hours. Mary confided in me right before graduation
that she often cried herself to sleep because she was so scared being
alone. Remembrance of those little
confidences cause guilt and bile to rise up inside me to this day. How did I not see…why did I not know?
The answer is perhaps because of Mary herself. You see every day Mary came to school
smiling, happy. She would come into my
room after eating her breakfast in the cafeteria and run over to me and hug me
and say, “Good Morning, Mrs. G., I love you!”
And ever morning I would smooth down her hair and fix her bow and stroke
her thin shoulders and say, “Good Morning Mary, I love you too!” We would then start the day with the other
students and as the morning progressed I would feel myself smiling whenever I
would hear Mary’s breathless laugh, or sweet little giggle.
So by now, I am sure you are wondering many things. Perhaps you are asking where child services
was or why I, as Mary’s teacher, did not intervene. Why didn’t the school report the
grandmother? Why didn’t someone, anyone
buy Mary a new pair of shoes for god’s sakes?
Or give her grandmother a bag of groceries? Where were Mary’s parents and why in god’s
name did this child have to suffer?
I wish I could tell you that I was Mary’s hero. That I made sure she had all the things I
mentioned above and then some. I truly
wish I could tell you that Mary’s life changed; that she did not continue to
live in bone-crushing poverty.
Unfortunately, if I did tell you those things I would be telling you a
lie and at the beginning of this story I promised you the truth…and so here it
is.
Mary’s father was in a maximum-security prison in the state
of Maryland for stabbing his wife to death as Mary watched. It was Mary’s grandmother—the same
grandmother who left Mary each day rather than turn her over to social services
where she most assuredly would have become a shell of the child she was, that
stayed her son’s hand before he plunged that same kitchen knife into his own
chest.
They lived on less that $350 dollars a month and, while bone
thin and small for her age, Mary went to the dentist every 6 months, was up to
date on all her shots, and came to school clean and alert every day—this is
what her grandmother could do for Mary and she did it fiercely, loyally,
without hesitation. Mary may have had
less than pristine clothes because her grandmother could not afford a washing
machine and hand washed their clothing, but Mary had good sturdy clean clothing…and
believe it or not…Mary was content with that.
You see, the one thing that Mary and her grandmother did have
which trumped all else was love. Mountains of it…rivers of it…endless miles
and miles of it. From the raw and
devastating hurt of a life lived on the edge of an abyss, they made a small
island that was all theirs. The love
that shined in Mary’s eyes was there because even though she lay alone for
those 4 hours each night she knew—she knew
with a certainty beyond reason that at 2am her grandmother would come home and
crawl into bed with her, and pull her close, kiss her gently and keep her safe
the rest of the night.
Here is the real truth to this story, dear friends. It is not what we own, or where we live, or
how we dress that makes a home…no…it is the love that permeates every corner of
our lives. Love that wraps us up in it’s
tender embrace and says, I will stand here between you and the world tonight
and you will be safe…you will be loved…you will be my home and I will be
yours.
Every weekday morning, Mary’s grandmother would get up and
walk Mary to school. Two days a week,
every week of the school year, I had front door greeting duty and morning
breakfast monitoring. I shared these duties
with other staff members. I remember
remarking to a colleague about overhearing Mary’s morning ritual with her
grandmother. That teacher said she heard
the exact same thing when it was her turn to man the door. So I can tell you with certainty that when
Mary and her grandmother reached the front door to our school they said the
same farewell to each other every day…this is what they said:
“Mary, be a good girl today, learn everything you can and
help your teacher.”
“Yes, Nana.”
“Remember Mary,”
“I’m your sunshine.”
“Yes, girl you surely are.”
Dear, dear friends, that is love…pure and simple, yet
profound and lasting.
I am a born and raised Michigander and transplant yooper - that means I can hold my hands up and point to where I live in the upper peninsula of Michigan. My whole life I was always creative. I remember wanting to be a dancer when I was little. In middle school, my love for art started when I did a report on Pablo Picasso. I was also in band all of middle school and high school. My mom told me I couldn't quit because every year the senior band members went to Toronto Canada to see an musical and SHE WANTED TO GO. Which she did and honestly, I didn't mind. Having Mom chaperon meant I had a bank account with me the whole trip. Remember that kids, don't be ashamed to let your parents come on a field trip because all you have to do is hold out your hand when you see something you want.
Our Family Coalition was formed through the 2002 merger of two organizations serving lesbian, gay, bisexual and/or transgender families – the Berkeley-based Our Family and San Francisco-based All Our Families Coalition (AOFC). Our Family was founded in 1994 by a group of East Bay lesbian and gay parents with infants as a social/educational organization for LGBTQ families. AOFC was formed in 1996 by and for LGBT families to both provide families with services and referrals that addressed their needs and helped them support each other and to build the resources and structures that enabled LGBT families to advocate for themselves in their communities. Since 2002 we have grown to over 700 member families, with many more participating in our activities and employing our services.
