MAY 29, 2021 – Yesterday I took our five-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter to nearby Como Park, where she ran free in the gracious sunshine. On our way to the frog pond, Illiana—in her princess dress—rolled down a grassy knoll. If my back had allowed, I would’ve joined her, as oblivious to attention as was she.
We had, in fact, caught attention.
“Excuse me sir,” the woman called out, as she alighted from her vehicle in a small parking lot we were passing. We stopped. “I noticed you walking from the pavilion and your daughter’s marvelous dress, and I wanted to catch up.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, but the princess is my granddaughter, not my daughter.
Above her face mask, the middle-aged Black woman’s eyes conveyed the warmth of a sunny personality. “Oh,” she said with a laugh, “my mistake was based on how young you look!”
My back was feeling better already.
“I’m a teacher,” she continued, “and I like to reach out to kids outside the classroom, since outside the classroom is where so many have spent the last year . . . are you in kindergarten, dear?” the woman asked Illiana.”
“I’m in pre-K,” said the princess.
“Well now,” the woman said, “I have something for you—hold on.” With that, she stepped back to her vehicle and opened the tailgate. Piled high inside were brand new backpacks, basketballs, and other kid stuff. She pulled out a “Minnesota Twins” backpack laden with contents and handed it to Illiana.
“Open it up!” said the woman. I helped Illiana with the zipper, then peered at the things inside—coloring sets, and early math and reading books. I had a million questions but started with “Who?” and “Why?”
What ensued was a delightful and fascinating conversation with “Monica,” a 48-year old, mother of a 20-year old and a 14-year old; an elementary school teacher with 24 years’ experience; a native of East St. Louis, where “white people stayed on one side of the line, and we, on the other; whose “granddad,” from Arkansas, told her growing up, “never trust a white person”; who moved with her parents to Minnesota when she was 10; who, in her new school in suburban Minneapolis, was treated as an alien by her teacher, who scolded her for “talking with an accent” the teacher couldn’t understand and having hair that gave the teacher “an allergic reaction,” the punishment for which was to sit in a corner with a spray bottle to spray away the “offensive” smell.
“That experience changed my life,” Monica said, tugging at her face mask. “I decided I’d become a teacher myself but the exact opposite kind of that teacher.”
Monica was as intelligent and reflective, as she was outgoing and delightful. When I asked her if she was optimistic or pessimistic about the country, she said, “As a teacher and person of faith, I have to be optimistic.” In parting, I told her that with people like her in the world, I have to be optimistic too.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
