I am a woman of many words. A lover of language. A vocabulary nerd.
I made my sophomores read this about the importance of precise expression.
I seldom exhaust my supply of synonyms.
Yet here I am in the wake of an outpouring of affirmation, support, and generosity that has stunned me in my lexical tracks. I am indeed (profoundly):
Owing to the generosity of friends, formers (my students, past), family, and colleagues, the students and staff of Phoenix Academy High School will indeed visit the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, yet “visit” in no way approaches an adequate depiction of the itinerary that awakes our young travelers. All made possible by the contributions of so, so many donors. (I also have to thank DIane Ravitch and my wonderful NPE colleagues, Jamica Ashley of The Herald-Sun, Jane Stancill of the Raleigh News & Observer, Jim Jenkins of the N&O editorial staff, and Rachel Herzog of The Daily Tar Heel for their generous and thoughtful publicity. No one has ever had a better Warholian 15-minutes than I have, courtesy of these wonderful advocates and journalists!!)
In addition to the $15K+ that came in via online donations in only TWO WEEKS, we received two very special gifts: (1) a kind and gentle stranger from California – a businessman who could have made hay of his gift but asked to remain anonymous – called to say that he would fund any shortfall and asked to simply be notified of the amount we needed, and after reaching our goal, (2) a local supporter of the USHMM reached out to provide a supplemental amount to each participant for the museum shop and “treats.” As if the set pieces were not “treat” enough, bless his genuinely selfless soul! When he wanted to help, I told him that I would love for each student to be able to select a remember stone from the museum gift shop.
He sent me this:
a photo of his stone, and then wrote a huge check to provide not only a stone but also other “treats” to each participant.
I am truly stopped in my tracks by these magnanimous gifts.
Gifts from strangers to strangers, given not for any sort of personal gain but in earnest hope of enriching this world – of making it better by promoting love and tolerance and genuinely equal opportunity for my kids. My kids who so often have to take whatever life has dished out.
The trip itinerary is here: Phoenix Academy Tour of DC. It totally does not suck.
Then came the personal gifts. The donor of the “treats” reached out to museum officials, and the universe rained awesomeness (yeah, I know that’s not particularly impressive diction, but when it comes to awesomeness, our hyperbolic teen term may know no superior). This week, on Wednesday, April 30th, I will be the director’s guest at the private commemoration ceremony during the Days or Remembrance. I am so [insert any word from above list in bold and italics] it’s hard to express, even with the myriad words at my disposal.
The past two weeks’ whirlwind of fundraising and planning have been the best kind of work – the work that you know will bear fruit – that your faith assures you will yield lasting good. But to sit at that invitation-only ceremony on Wednesday – a gentile – and hear the reading of names, well, no words could ever suffice. That evening, I will also attend the Tribute Dinner at which Romeo Dallaire (NIck Nolte’s character in Hotel Rwanda) will receive the Elie Wiesel award.
My teacher-nerd heart may explode.
Meanwhile, friends are visiting, calling, and reaching out from all over the nation and even from across the pond. I am bombarded by the riches of my life – the gifts I have received but cannot hope to accurately remember (yes, I split that infinitive), much less to adequately appreciate (that one, too).
But here is a sampling scatterplot of blessings:
. . . clean water, two loving parents who made sacrifices to advance my happiness and opportunity, a solid-to-excellent public school education, a decent mind, three university degrees, a body that was almost perfectly healthy for 50 years, chances to travel and live abroad and learn other languages, the chance to experience my grandparents’ farm with a roto-dial phone (a party line, no less) and black and white television that only received two channels, a fairly innocent small-town childhood, the richness of life in two amazing college towns (Athens in the REM era and Chapel Hill in the Moral Monday era), swimming in the phosphorescent waters of Thailand, visiting the Uffizi, Cezanne’s Aix, and L’Orangerie, never being hungry, always having sufficient medical care, wonderful pets, wonderful friends, wonderful family, and especially the wonder of growing two new humans and nursing them and loving them through their childhoods. I survived the Cold War and witnessed first the hatred of people who looked liked me toward those who don’t during integration in Mississippi, and then, though I still see that hatred in much more muted and insidious form, I saw President Obama elected.
I have known great and true love – the love of both man and God. And now I look from this new perspective of terminal illness to see how intentionally each thread of my life has been woven and I am in awe. (UPDATE: 4/48: For example, I posted this last night, 4/27, and my church announced this today. Because awesomeness.)
I am clearly much more blessed than cursed.
In fact, for any one of my many blessings, many people might have traded a substantial portion of their time on this rock.
So when people tell me that I am being “heroic” or “have such a great attitude,” I try to tell them some version of this, which is true not only for me, but for many of you:
Not only does “my cup runneth over,” but every day brings precious new gifts.