East Flatbush Writer

I once attended a professional development session for teachers which began with a lecture from a very distinguished professor. To begin his talk,  he displayed a copy of the first pages of Elvis Presley’s passport. At first sight I was like probably many others in the auditorium,  confused.  What did this picture have to do with the anticipated topic? But with great ease,  this extremely well-versed professor crafted an engaging story about what a simple page out of someone’s passport can tell us about their life and times. We sat there fastened to our seats with amazement as he weaved together dates and events which might have impacted Elvis’ life, contributed to his identity and of course, subsequently our own. 

There are simple artifacts from our lives that tell a similar story.  For example,  the image of a 20 year old check leaf that I recently found among some other papers. After glancing at it for a few seconds, instinctively I was about to throw it away.  But as my eyes fell on the basic details, name, address, bank address,  they reminded me of who I was at that time in my life.

Twenty years ago I was a divorced mom who had chosen to keep the hyphenated name of Fagan-Goodrich. Fagan is my father’s last name and Goodrich is that of my ex-husband. The two names, for over 10 years had been my identity.  It was the name I gave to anyone during introductions. It was the name I shared with my young son hoping that retaining a similar last name would provide him with a secure sense of family and belonging.  It was the name that told the world,  I was legitimate,  not a “baby mama” but rather a divorcee.

Right below my name is the address of where I lived at the time.  The apartment located at 465 East 7th Street was a small one bedroom with a hallway that was transformed into my 8 year old son’s bedroom.  It was quite a step down from our large 2- bedroom apartment which was only ten blocks away. At the beginning of 2005, it became obvious that we had to move into smaller, more affordable housing. Post 9/11 rents were doubling as residents of lower Manhattan fled the scorched city.  As a teacher, I couldn’t compete with the paychecks of corporate consultants. It was one block away from the school in which I taught but miles away from the reality I had hoped for myself and my son. 

The check leaf above reminds me of a personal history that is in part responsible for the person I am today.  Those days in that small apartment was filled with hope of better for us. It taught us resilience and patience.  In that humble place, I worked  towards contentment and faith in a future held together by God.