Running
I was born in a rush. They told me the story many times. It was a cold day in February with sleet slanting down on the sidewalk in biting lines. Momma was feeling labor pains and my father rushed with her into the street. He ran from corner to corner searching for a taxi with Momma’s contractions coming faster. Finally, he found one and the cabbie skidded through the slippery streets to the Lutheran Hospital in Brooklyn just in time for me to be born in a bed.
Everything in my house was done with speed supported by a high level of energy and accompanied by a low degree of organization. Schnell, schnell, eat fast, dress fast, get ready to go to the beach fast, and yet we couldn’t get out of the house until 2 or 3 in the afternoon. Nothing could be found easily: bathing suits mislaid, house keys nowhere to be seen, last minute purchases to be made. Each day was a race to get somewhere, to do something, to bring together things to accomplish the tasks of the day.
I have a cloudy recollection of sitting in a highchair and my mother moving a tablespoon from a bowl of hot cereal to my mouth and then back down with a regularity that left little time for swallowing. Up and down went the spoon and now years later it is only with great effort that I am able to put a utensil down between bites and to experience the taste of what I bring to my mouth.
Mornings getting ready to go to the elementary school across the street were chaos. Momma kept a fast, frenetic pace as though she were trying to avoid some disaster, to get away from something, to stay ahead of somebody, scurrying from room to room locating shirts and ties, finding misplaced books, preparing sandwiches. “George, get out of the bathroom. I’ve got to go.” “What happened to my homework?” “Is lunch ready?” “Momma, where’s my shirt?” Three boys collecting clothes, schoolbooks, lunches, tumbling over one other, and every morning I ran to school barely beating the late bell. This continued all the way through high school. Every day a group of my friends walked to school at a leisurely pace. Twenty minutes later as they were about to enter the school building, I’d join them having run the one-mile distance to make up for a tardy start.
Before I was 10, I discovered that speed of movement had its positive aspects. I was quick and could play sports better than other boys of my age. I spent hours in the schoolyard on the basketball court taking pleasure in my unlimited energy. Opposing players marveled at my endurance. “Sid can run forever,” they said.
When I was older, I often wondered about the source of my athletic ability. My immigrant parents knew nothing of sports and their only exercise was to walk to the store. One summer when my father, my mother, my brothers, and I were picking blueberries, I found the answer. Momma’s hands flew over the bushes with machine-like speed as she pulled branches aside and plucked at berry clusters. Her eyes darted everywhere anticipating the location for the next thrust of her hand. One bush emptied of fruit she moved unhesitatingly to another target. With grace and agility Momma filled box after box with berries.
Poppa, too, contributed to my legacy of speed. As an insurance agent each evening he needed to tally his day’s collection of premiums. His lips mouthed numbers with the swiftness of an adding machine as he counted the dollars, quarters, and dimes given to him by his clients. As I watched him running through the figures, I absorbed his rhythm and learned to add, subtract, multiply, and divide rapidly without pencil and paper.
The depth to which the household cadences of my growing up years imprinted themselves on me showed when I went to donate blood. In a basement room of the local hospital, I rolled up my sleeve and the attendant connected the apparatus to my arm. She inserted a needle and remarked, “My goodness, you have fast blood. We’re all done.” I walked home amazed that the pace of my early environment had infiltrated my circulatory system.
My day begins. I rush to my car to get to my class on time. I drive unaware of the trees, the sky, other cars, as I move to my campus destination. The time with my students goes fast as words follow ideas instantaneously. Later as I sit at a faculty meeting, I sense my body hunched forward, one foot drawn back, the toes reaching into the ground poised to move. A voice drones on in the background as my mind travels to other places returning periodically to get the gist of what is being said.
At home my mother-in-law tells a story. She pauses between thoughts as she reaches for the right words. I feel impatient at the slowness of her expression and have an urge to move in to complete her ideas. I hold myself in check and endure the intervals.
I sit in my favorite couch corner. I relax my shoulders, close my eyes, and breathe deeply. I try to empty my head. All is quiet. Nothing I have to do. I hear Momma say “Sh, sh, sh,” the stillest, most comforting words. I dismiss vagrant thoughts. For the moment, the past stops pushing me towards the future, and I am in the present.
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Dr. Sidney Trubowitz is professor emeritus of Education from Queens College of the City University of New York. He has been an elementary school teacher, an assistant principal and principal, a high school English teacher, professor of education, associate dean and Director of the Queens College Center for the Improvement of Education. He is the author of four books and has published numerous articles in periodicals such as Phi Delta Kappan, Educational Leadership, Urban Education, and The Principal. His most recent book is The Good Teacher Mentor: Setting the Standard for Support and Success. He lives in New York City with his wife and loves to share stories with his two children and three grandchildren.