LENA HABTU
YEARS AS MENTEE: 1
GRADE: Freshman
HIGH SCHOOL: Ethical Culture Fieldston School
BORN: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
LIVES: New York, NY
MENTEE’S ANECDOTE: In my time with Sammi, we’ve worked on practical things, such as editing and dialogue, but my fondest memory was when we found a shared passion. I’d been itching to write a piece on immigration, and we decided to work simultaneously. I was in awe of her eloquence, as well as the quiet strength and resilience of her piece.
SAMMI LABUE
YEARS AS MENTOR: 1
OCCUPATION: Founder and Leader, Fledgling Writing Workshops
BORN: Moorpark, CA
LIVES: Brooklyn, NY
PUBLICATIONS AND RECOGNITIONS: Sammi’s Fledgling Writing Workshops named one of the best writing classes in NYC by Time Out
MENTOR’S ANECDOTE: I often misspeak, calling Lena my mentor rather than my mentee. Maybe it’s because since our first meeting, her ambition has been contagious. The way she talks about storytelling is like solving a puzzle. I love to see her wheels turn when she snaps together the pieces. In those moments she reminds me of my young self, who was most at home in my own imagination. She so clearly has a writer’s mind and a wisdom and strength beyond her years to back it. No matter who’s teaching whom, I feel lucky to be a part of our little team.
Maya Angelou supposedly said people reveal themselves when faced with: “a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.” This collaborative piece, inspired by Maya’s quote, is about finding joy despite our disappointments.
So much goes unsaid between a mother and a daughter. As we drove south, the quiet in the car was so absolute I could almost hear the individual drops of rain as they collected one by one on the windshield. I turned from her, and exhaled hot steam on the window. Out of her line of vision, I began to run my finger over the glass, etching out all that I could never say to her face.
“Why does this always happen?” she said, breaking me from my trance. I peeked over my shoulder to see her talking to the long, empty road.
“Can you chill?” My patience was wearing thin, and I’d been in the car for far too long. I slumped back in my seat, pulling my seatbelt strap over my head—which she hates—and pushed in my earbuds.
Staring absently out of the scribble-covered window, I began to reminisce about the delights of Christmas two days ago—as if! Aunt Cathy, dressed to the nines in awful character shoes and an uppity demeanor, complete with a frilly gingham apron, had shaken me awake.
Cheers to the holiday spirit, I guess. But it wasn’t until later that things took a turn for the terrible. I’d managed to spend the day dodging family members, but dinner was, unfortunately, inevitable. The food was inscrutable, and Aunt Cathy jumped at every opportunity to blame Mom for why Dad, to use her words, “turned out like that.” Which of course was no one’s fault but his own.
By the time we made it to the winding road that led to Beaufort County Airport, I had managed to calm down a bit, but I could tell by Mom’s tight jaw that she had not.
I knew what she was thinking, and I couldn’t help but agree. This would never happen at JFK. This place was a joke. One runway, two hangars, and a staff that seemed as sad as the disheveled building they worked inside.
She parked the car and exited, slamming the door as she did. Scrambling after her, through the smudged glass doors, I waited for her to make sure I was behind her. She didn’t.
When we reached the end of the expanse of worn carpet and approached the squirrelly attendant, I expected her to take her frustrations out on him. Instead, she gave a weak “Excuse me.” If only she would be half as aggressive with others as she was with me. “How may I help you?” he responded robotically. As my mother began to recount the events of the last few days, his eyes glazed over.
“Yes, you see, our bags—”
“Our bags with all our Christmas presents. And all our clothes,” I interrupted, gesturing to the awful argyle sweater I had to borrow from Cathy.
Mom flashed me a glare, her “be polite” look. I rolled my eyes, opting to preserve both of our sanities, and stepped back, leaving her to plead our case.
I found the corner farthest from Mom, next to a pathetic, plastic Christmas tree devoid of lights, and plopped onto the ground.
I was no stranger to disappointing Christmases or ugly Christmas trees. The last time I spoke to my father the tree stood bare. He had called from “the road”—always his nondescript location when I asked where he was. I’d try to fill in the blanks about my father, known to me as the man who always let us down.
He would call from hotel rooms or diners, check in and make promises we both knew he couldn’t keep. One week before Christmas he called from a bar. I could hear the sound of pool balls clacking into each other as I asked if he would be home for Christmas.
“Of course I will, baby,” he said. I thought he sounded giddy. Now I know he sounded drunk. “Don’t decorate the tree without me.” And so we didn’t. At that point I still had a little blind trust in him. Mom and I read The Polar Express again and pretended we weren’t disappointed, an art we seemed to have perfected by then.
I turned toward the sad baggage-claim tree and box of tangled lights sitting below it and remembered how he sucked the cheer out of that Christmas and every Christmas since.
When I noticed Mom returning, I could tell the news was grim by her pursed lips. I could read her so easily, and even that annoyed me about her.
“They’ve asked us to wait. They’re ‘still looking,’ ” she said.
“We could always go back to the city,” I suggested halfheartedly.
“Devan,” she said sternly, “You know Cathy and her family are the closest we can get to—”
“Yeah, I know … I never wanted to come here, anyway,” I mumbled. The fact that Cathy and the scumbag that turned our lives upside down share the same blood is all the more reason to steer clear.
“What was that?” Mom said, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “You never wanted to come here? You did, once. You liked the fields, the plane rides, the skateboards from Cathy and Greg. I’ve brought you back, year after year. Do you think my ideal Christmas includes eating collard greens and being constantly reminded I’m unwelcome? But I tolerate it for you, Devan. It’s all for you,” she finished fiercely, leaving me struck silent.
“I only act okay with it because I feel like you need it or something. I go along with it for you.”
I heard something I hadn’t in a while. She began to laugh. She dropped down next to me on the floor and put her hand on my knee. She looked at me with those guarded eyes, lit up by humor, and said, “If I’m here for you and you’re here for me, then who the heck are we doing this for?”
“I’d love to just have a regular Christmas, the two of us. You know, putting lights on the tree and making cookies or something.” I shrugged, blinking back tears.
“Maybe we still can.” She leaned on my shoulder. “See that poor, scraggly tree over there?” I nodded. “How about we spruce it up?”
She crawled toward the box of lights. I loved seeing her that way, gleeful and carefree. She laid the mass of cords across our laps and we began the tedious work of picking out the knots. A grueling ten minutes later, we had draped the fluorescent lights on the tree—quite magnificently, I might add. I hummed “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”
“It finally does,” she murmured, flashing me a rare, fleeting smile.
We heard the sound of the attendant’s asthmatic breath behind us. “Your luggage.” He nodded at our bags, dirty and rumpled but in one piece nonetheless. He left as quickly as he came, turning a blind eye to our post-Christmas decorating.
“Oh! I got you a present,” she said, unzipping her bag and producing a tiny box. Inside was a single silver bell, not dissimilar to the ones we read about in The Polar Express.
“Well, this is awkward …” I rummaged through my bag and fished out its twin. We hung them on the tree and watched them glint beside each other. We smiled. This time, nothing needed to be said.
Walking away from the bit of holiday magic we created, I swear I could hear the delicate clinking of silver bells.