When my husband Chuck left for work in the morning, he was fortunate enough to be able to walk to his school. I, on the other hand, took an express bus, daily, to my school. I envied my husband’s ability to walk to work, and after awhile I developed a yearning to be able to to do the same.

My husband taught in an incredible school in our Manhattan, Upper West Side neighborhood. When I would visit on occasion, his colleagues treated me like family. I was very impressed with the diverse staff, the congeniality, love, and respect they had for my husband, for each other and the children.

My entire teaching career, I had worked in schools where African American teachers were generally in the minority. If a new teacher came to the school and happened to be Black, and if white colleagues saw me talking to that person, I always felt as if the white staff thought there might be a conspiracy going on. Thus, the question would undoubtedly be raised, “Do you know each other? ” Those of us who were the “minority,” suffered those indignities (now known as microaggressions) in silence. We even laughed about it amongst ourselves, because it happened to each and every one of us, like clockwork. Two or more Black people chatting together, regardless of whether you knew each other or not, was seen as a red flag and made many white staffers feel uncomfortable. I’ve since learned that this happens in lots of workplaces and isn’t just confined to the teaching profession. It was as though every new Black person that came to work in the school was someone whom we all knew. No, we don’t all know each other, and why would we? We were all seen as one and the same with no regard for our differences. This actually happened in every school I ever worked in with the exception of an elementary school in Brooklyn, early in my teaching career, that had a Black principal and a Junior High School that not only had an African American principal, but a predominantly African-American staff.

After twenty six years of teaching, I submitted for a transfer to one of my neighborhood schools, and soon the transfer was granted. I remember my first day, being greeted by a beautiful woman of color, Abby, welcoming me to the new school. As I made my way into this new workplace, I was warmly greeted by everyone, including the principal at that time, Jack Regan. The staff was younger than most staff I’d ever worked with because now, after all my work years, I was a part of the senior staff. I like to say that I was now working with my former colleagues’ children.

The atmosphere was one of dedication, energy, innovation and an acute awareness of social cues and racial sensitivity as pertaining to the children being taught, by most staffers. This was a new and refreshing atmosphere for me that was not present in my previous school settings. No one wondered if I knew a person of color because I was talking to them. Many of the white staffers were aware of Jack and Jill, HBCU’s and the NAACP. No one was going to ask me if I had any Ebony magazines at home that they could borrow so they could put up a bulletin board for Black History Month (true story). Many of my new colleagues had grown up in culturally diverse environments. They had a different perspective and awareness of the world around them. They knew what they should say and what they shouldn’t say to people of color. There were exceptions, but for the most part the social and political awareness, the woke atmosphere, was very refreshing to me. I would no longer suffer stupid inquiries and tone deaf questions regarding myself and people of color as if I was the representative for all Black people, whom, it was assumed, were a monolith.

As the months turned into years we became a family, a very tight knit family. We socialized with each other outside of the workplace. We shared ideas, strategies, and best practices in a collegial environment with the intention of reaching attainable goals and success for our children.

When my father passed away, so many colleagues came to dad’s funeral. Some sent us supper, many sent condolences and flowers. When Chuck’s dad had passed a few years earlier, his colleagues did the same. All were loving and kind.

When my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in December of 2007, my colleagues were so supportive. Ironically, a staff member had also been diagnosed with same, as we would find out when we returned from Christmas break. I too would be coming back with the tragic news that my husband had been diagnosed with the deadly cancer. Judy passed in March of 2008 three months after diagnosis, while my husband would start treatment in February of the same year. I asked my principal at that time to tell people not to talk to me about impending doom. I would always be on a mission to find a miracle for my husband, and I didn’t want to be discouraged as I prepared to begin life in a bubble.

That principal gave me pep talks often, and I would cry, then get myself together in order to teach and care for my husband. Colleagues would invariably come to check on me, many told me how they would pray for Chuck. Some gave me special waters and oils to apply onto my husband. One precious parent actually painted a huge picture for my husband and me, of the River Jordan. Many colleagues even shared with me their own experiences with relatives who’d had pancreatic cancer, but not one shared an outcome. It was unspoken, verboten, like a community pact. I would value that because it kept me in a positive state. They intuitively knew, collectively, what they could share and what they should not. I stayed encouraged until my last day there.

Even despite my wishes, one staff member, once she knew I was retiring, insisted on giving me some advice that I would definitely need. Iris knew that I would ultimately regret her not having told me and crossed that line to advise me on a certain matter. I am so grateful to her, as it was a life changing decision that would determine my financial future. I love my former colleagues, the ones who knew me well, the ones who were friendly and kind, generous and fun. All rallied around me at the most critical time of my life.

In fact, one dear friend, set me up on a date with her recently widowed neighbor, many, many months after my husband had passed away. He reminded her of my husband and she thought we might have a few things in common. When the meeting was set in a restaurant near my home, she came, he came, and several of my colleagues came too, just to make sure everything was on the up and up. Later they grilled me as to what he was saying. They were looking after me still, just as one would for a family member. Can you imagine! Neither of us was ready but we had a good time reminiscing about our spouses, and we did keep in touch. However, I really appreciated the thoughtfulness of my friend Julie, whom I adore, and it got me out of my grief bubble for a time. It also let me know that at some point I might be ready to seek male companionship, but that would be a long, long time down the road. Can you imagine the love and generosity of spirit that it takes to continue to look after a colleague who was no longer a part of the day to day work family?

After I came to this school, I was able to walk with my husband to our respective schools along Columbus Ave., hand in hand, each morning. I was happiest when I was near Chuck and I was always happy to see him, be with him, his soft little hand in mine. I would hold his hand many times throughout his battle with pancreatic cancer; we were a team, our hearts bound together, as we forged this new frontier.

Now, years later, the staff from my school, continue to meet periodically, as we did recently, a reunion of sorts. We do love to party and laugh, cry, hug and kiss. My former colleagues are always up for gathering together and it was a blast! Times have changed and there are new staff members, new traditions, and educational standards, much of which has been informed by COVID and the pandemic. But what I continue to know for sure is that these people were the bedrock of our school community. They were there when I needed them, protective, caring, empathetic and full of encouraging words. They saw me through the worst of times, and as Beverly likes to say, “We were a family, dysfunctional, but a family.” Such a loyal bond cannot be broken.

So, like with Chuck, I love seeing them, hugging them, being with them, and I am always happy to see them again and again.