Dear Ms. Lynch,
I
realize Ms. Lynch is no longer your name, but I don’t remember your new one. My
mother did tell me once after running into you at the SFUSD office when I was
already an adult. It took some time for
the two of you to realize how you knew each other since she was no longer Mrs.
Hanni and you were no longer Ms. Lynch, but, eventually, one or both of you
recalled. I suppose I could address you by your first name since I am an adult now, but, well, that’s not
how I think of you. Besides, I believe that is the answer to one of the
security questions for some financial institution so I shan’t repeat it here.
Anyway,
as you may have guessed, none of that is why I am writing to you. If you
remember me at all, you already know that I adored you as a child. You were the
first teacher I truly liked, let alone loved, and you are still my favorite.
Nothing can hold a candle to the unabashed love of a second grader.
But
really, you’ve had a far greater impact on me than just the love you gave me.
Even though that, in and of itself, was enough. I don’t know if it would have
occurred to you how often I think of you and for what reasons.
Most
recently, you resurfaced in my mind and heart while I was reading Chimamanda
Ngozi Adichie’s new book, Dear Ijeawale,
A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions. In it, Chima ( as I call her
since she is my pretend BFF) talks about why she prefers the honorific Ms. As
you are well aware, men are given the honorific Mr. whether they are married or
not. Women, when they wed, switch from Miss to Mrs. But Ms. remains ambiguous.
The fact that the honorific changes is symbolic of the cultural expectation
that marriage is something that a woman is to strive for, but the lack of
change for men reflects how marriage is not some sort of achievement for them in
the same sense.
Why
does this remind me of you? Perhaps you remember. One time you gave me a note
addressed to my mother. On it you wrote “Ms. Hanni.” I asked you why you wrote
Ms. Instead of Mrs. You explained to me that Mrs. Implied that you were
married, and that Ms. could mean either, and you did not want to make any
presumptions about her marital state. That always struck me, and although my
seven year old brain did not quite comprehend its full significance, I knew it
was important, and I held onto it and let it flourish over the years.
Another
time in class, you asked us what the only profession was that a man could do
that a woman could not. We kids shouted out various answers such as fireman and
astronaut. You said ‘no’ to them all. I was convinced I had you when I said
‘priest,’ but even that you said a woman could be. I was floored and in awe. In
the end, nobody got it, and you refused ever to tell us. I pondered that
question regularly over the years, and I still do sometimes, even though I have
long resolved that the only possible answer could be ‘father.’
That day, and perhaps every day,
you planted mighty seeds that have continued to germinate and flourish into
vast trees. I am forever grateful that you were my teacher. I doubt very much
if we should run into each other that we would recognize one another after
these thirty-seven years, but perhaps you will recognize my name, for I did not
change it upon marriage. I would love to see you again to tell you how much you
mean to me and to give you one last great hug.
With much love and admiration,
Ms. Karin Hanni
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