December 15, 1969

Old Mrs. Griff

It was bitter cold this morning when I met Lonnie for the walk to school. The trip from the corner of Thirty-Fourth Avenue and Parsons to the front door of McMasters is about three-quarters of a mile—eight avenues north and five streets east. Lonnie and I sometimes walk it, sometimes ride the bus. The rest of the guys almost always ride the bus, especially during the winter. I was glad it was just me and Lonnie today, since I had to let him know the bar mitzvah was on hold until the end of May. He nodded when I told him—what else could he do but nod? It’s not like I had to say why.

We went another few blocks without talking, just thinking thoughts. Then, to break the mood, he began razzing me about how much extra work I’d have to do on my haftarah. “With your brains, you’ll know the thing backwards. You should do that, Jules! You should learn it backwards and then say it backwards in temple. Who’s going to know?”

“C’mon, you know who’d know.”

“I’m telling you, Magoo’s going to make you say it standing on one foot. He’s not going to let up until you cry uncle.”

“Then I’ll just cry uncle and get it over with.”

“You might be a rabbi yourself by the time you’re done with it.”

We went back and forth like that for the rest of the walk, yakking it up about nothing, taking in the sights. Not that there were many sights to take in. It snowed a couple of weeks ago, and even though the snow was long gone from Thirty-Fourth Avenue, you could still see iced-over traces of it on the front lawns of houses as we made our way into Whitestone.

It’s a nicer area than Flushing, at least the part of Whitestone we were walking through. There are no apartment buildings, nothing higher than two floors—just private homes until you get to Twenty-Sixth Avenue. That’s where the two schools are, P.S. 23 and McMasters Junior High, right across the street from one another. But I wouldn’t want to live in Whitestone. It’s too flat and too open. The neighborhood has no nooks and crannies, nowhere you can go with your friends where a half dozen neighborhood moms can’t look out their kitchen windows and see what you’re doing. There’s nowhere like Ponzini—which is the abandoned lot off Parsons where we spend most of our time.

Still, if you take a step back, you’d have to say that Whitestone is nicer than Flushing. The streets are cleaner and quieter, and it’s got old-fashioned mailboxes that sit on wooden poles, and during the spring it’s got sparrows and robins instead of pigeons, and the people who live there own their houses and drive new cars and don’t have to park them six blocks from their houses, since the houses come with garages.

The rest of the guys were hopping off the bus in front of McMasters as we turned the corner at Twenty-Sixth Avenue. Lonnie yelled to Eric, which got his attention, and he, Howie, and Shlomo waited for us to come up the block.

McMasters is a real school-looking school. The place is huge, which I guess it has to be, since it’s got over a thousand kids. The building is four stories high and takes up half the block, and the yard takes up the other half. It’s got reddish-brown bricks on the first floor, but after that it’s just long glass windows, which glint in the sunlight, so it’s kind of painful to look at on sunny days.

“My bar mitzvah got moved back to May,” I told them as soon as we got within earshot of the rest of the guys.

Shlomo started to laugh. “You need more time to study?”

Howie swatted him in the back of the head, and the reason sank in.

“You think I should move mine?” Eric asked. “You don’t think he’ll still be in the hospital in March, do you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Lonnie said. “He won’t still be in the hospital in March.”

“How do you know?”

“Because by then—” Lonnie cut himself off. He didn’t want to say the rest, and none of us wanted to hear it, even though we were all thinking it. “You’re not going to have to move your bar mitzvah, okay? One way or the other, he’ll be out of the hospital. Let’s leave it at that.”

It was just as well that the warning bell rang at that moment. We walked through the front doors of McMasters together, then went our separate ways. That meant fighting through crowds of kids rushing to their homerooms.

I like to take my time in the morning. There’s only about a half-minute difference between taking your time and running like a maniac, dodging back and forth, ricocheting off other kids running in the opposite direction, so what’s the point of knocking yourself out?

Plus, the hallways of McMasters are full of student art, paintings and drawings, and new stuff goes up each week. You’d be amazed at how good it is. Some of the art looks so much like the thing that it could’ve been done by a professional artist. It’s a definite step up from the giant oaktag posters that lined the halls of P.S. 23. There’s this one painting of the Bowne House—it’s on the third floor, right after you come out of the staircase. The first time I noticed it, it stopped me in my tracks.

The Bowne House, in case you don’t know, is a big historical site in Flushing. Quakers used to worship there. So I guess it’s kind of inspirational. But what got to me wasn’t the Quaker stuff. It was the way the artist had laid on the yellow paint so that you could almost feel the heat from the fireplace coming through the windows. You can’t, of course. I’ve reached up a half dozen times and touched it, and the paint is cold. But then you step away, and the warm glow comes back. Truthfully, I can’t believe a student painted that thing. I’ve tried to read the kid’s name, which is in the lower right corner, but I can’t make it out. If I could, and I met the guy, even if he was a ninth grader, I’d shake his hand.

My homeroom is on the third floor, room 301. It’s reserved for seventh graders in the Fast Track Program, so the rest of the kids call it the Spaz Track (which is the nicest thing they call it). Really, though, it’s just an average classroom. You’ve got your blackboard up front, your American flag off to the side, your teacher’s desk, and then five rows of student desks with five desks in each row. Nothing special. But I do like the posters of famous authors, with quotes underneath: “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.” That’s by Aristotle, an ancient Greek author. I mean, how could you not stop and think about it?

Room 301 also comes with Mrs. Griff, the oldest teacher I’ve ever had. She’s hunched over at the waist and has white hair the color and shape of a dandelion. But she also has a sense of humor about it—about being old, I mean. She told us the first day of school to think of her as a “sweet little old granny … who’s not afraid to kick your butts if they need kicking.” There are a few guys who take advantage of her, tossing paper airplanes and shooting rubber bands when she turns her back to write on the board. She’ll hear them sometimes, then wheel around and say, “Now cut the shenanigans!” That cracks up the class even more. But what’s the point of doing stuff if the teacher’s too old to catch on? Where’s the challenge?

We’re only with Mrs. Griff long enough for her to take morning attendance and write a few announcements and reminders. Then we split up and head to our first-period classes. We don’t see her again until the end of the day, when she takes afternoon attendance, writes a few more announcements and reminders, and lets us go home.

This afternoon, though, Mrs. Griff pulled me aside after she dismissed the class. She didn’t make a big deal of it. She just kind of got in my way as I was heading out the door, and put her arm in front of me. Then she nodded toward my seat. So I went back and sat down. When we were the only two people left in the room, she walked over, leaned against the desk next to mine, and said, “Beverly mentioned that you and she have a sick friend.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You’re probably expecting me to give you words of encouragement.”

I looked up at her. “Isn’t that what you’re going to do?”

“I’m going to tell you to persevere. Do you know what that means?”

I shook my head.

“It means to keep going,” she said. “That’s the last I’ll say on the topic.”

She nodded at the door, and I got up and left.

Say what you want about old Mrs. Griff. But she kept it short and sweet.