Copperfield

From a young age, my mother told me that she’d felt a pull to read and write, and she used that persuasion to guide the decisions that she made throughout her life. Her love of words lulled her interest in high school English classes, guided her through literary studies at a well established university and ultimately led her to teach classes at the same middle school she had attended decades prior. 

It was evident to everyone that my mother had a gift. The stories she wrote read like music, a composition of something buoyant and pleasant. Her lines made still images come to life, every metaphor and literary element serving a critical purpose. As a girl, I’d see her sit at her desk and watch her sketch her imagination into words. In those moments, she was silhouetted by the presence of purpose, inspired by the young childhood dreams she would bring to life. 

When she first began teaching, her career resembled that of every young teacher who had just arrived at the dawn of a new beginning. Although the love of her craft was ferociously beating in her heart, dark clouds of insecurity hovered in her soul, deterring her confidence, determined to sway her from her calling.  

“My will to succeed was stronger than my fear of failing,” she told me once. Eventually, my mother expelled the doubts that threatened to cripple her, a clear testament to her faith, and replaced it with a flaming courage. Her fret of defeat had energized her greatest work, encouraged an inspirational greatness to serve her students in the best way she knew how. On the rare occasions I was offered a glimpse into her career, I would sit in the back of her classroom and watch her read to large groups of twelve and thirteen-year-olds. These were the ages she believed in which children underwent an awareness of who they were and began developing the fundamentals of who they would become. 

I never had any other career in mind other than to be an English teacher like my mother. Her passion for words was contagious and embedded itself into my psyche from a young age. My mother saw the world in images, just like novels. The stories she’d read and had written transported her to another world that was filled with possibilities of a life not traveled, where everything around her shimmered with possibility. It wasn’t until I was nearing my late teenage years that she disclosed the refuge that her books provided. In many ways, they served as a beacon of hope on the horizon of a dark and twisted past. As her parents argued over finances, she’d read by her bedroom window, watching the moon take the sun’s place in the sky, and imagine a new world, veiled by prosperity, that she could one day envision. 

As my journey toward becoming an established reader and writer was just beginning, my mother's success had wailed to life and was carried by intrigued literary agents, toward esteemed publishers. Her first novels, primarily children’s tales, revealed her artistry, but it wasn’t until she began writing thrillers, works of suspense and conspiracy, that she had raised the specter of sincerity to the largest publishing firms. Her success had peaked when I entered the seventh grade, and by the time I was entering high school, the income she made as a teacher no longer served her. 

“Why don’t you leave it behind?” I asked once on the ride home, without attempting to mask my curiosity. “We have plenty of money and even if you still wanted to teach, you could work for  that private school, Danbury,  for double your salary.” My mother registered this, and batted her eyes in disregard, dismissing my bewilderment. She left the silence unacknowledged for a long while and then said, “I think that these students will appreciate the stories more than the kids at Danbury.” 

By the time I was a senior, I felt the pressure of choosing a career path wrapped heavily around my shoulders. I wanted to follow in my mother’s footsteps, but I knew that for as long as I taught classes and wrote stories, there would always be insecurity warring with determination to be authentic in my own right. At the dinner table one night, my mother saw the shadow of her daughter as a child: afraid of the world twirling around her, frustrated with her lack of faith, disappointed in her will to overcome obstacles. I looked up from my college application and my eyes met hers. I expected to see some frisson of parental annoyance in her shamrock dusted stare, but instead I saw forgiveness, absolvent of my worry. My eyes welled with tears as I cried, “What if I’m not as successful? What if I can’t produce the work you have?” I paused for a moment, to find the courage to bear the most unspeakable truth: “What if I disappoint you?” The question lingered between us for a long while until my mother lifted her chin and said in a tone throbbing with conviction, “My girl you will only disappoint me if you don’t use your love of words for good.” 

Years later, when a formidable chapter of my life was just beginning, closure dwelled on my mother’s life. Upon finishing my master’s program, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, and was primarily bedridden from January to late July. As September loomed closer, I sat with her to discuss my plans for teaching in the fall. Despite my age, I knew that I had a significant chance at working at a prestigious private school, making plenty of money and establishing a renowned career. For over four years, I had appeased my wild appetite for success, writing articles for magazines and newspapers, interning for publishing companies in New York City and gaining recognition from authors who differentiated my literary voice from my mother’s. 

“I think I’ve got a great chance to start at Danbury,” I said hopefully to a version of my mother that I barely recognized. She was thin and delicate, and the circles that hung below her eyelids indicated the undertaking of a few rough months. I looked into her dull and dreary eyes and asked, “Isn’t that amazing?” I searched her face for approval, but in my expedition for clarity, I only found a dull sense of disappointment. “Why not Copperfield?” she asked, phrasing the question with principle. I looked into her eyes once more and removed any sadness from my tone when I answered, “I got an offer momma, but I’m not too sure.”

After answering the question, I turned my gaze away and imagined a career in the lower end middle school my mother served for over half of her life. Images of battered desks and books with rigid spines made my mind spin in an addled coil. I was content to stare out of my mother’s hospital window, to a line of sentinel trees that lined the sidewalks, but my mother’s glare was hot and persistent. A moment later, when our gazes reassembled, I found traces of kindness that expelled the skepticism that was present just minutes before. She blinked her eyes with a keen sense of knowing and then said, "There’s a photo album in the dining room, in the third drawer of the china cabinet. I want you to take a look at it before you make any decisions.”

Honoring my mother’s request, I returned to my childhood home that afternoon and found the album in the exact place she told me it would be. As I turned each page, I was compounded with inspiration and aspiration. There were dozens of notes thanking my mother for the great work she did inspiring those less fortunate to see the world in images like she did. These students envisioned themselves through the characters they read about and through their courage, wit and imagination, they could embody all of the characteristics that made them all individuals. Tales of wonder offered a literary fortress to impoverished children whose real lives lacked adventure. There were photographs of students who had gone onto accomplish great things: a young man, Timothy, an established lawyer, a beautiful brunette, April, a successful journalist, and even Samuel, a rebel who had no will or desire to overcome the cruel hand the universe had dealt him, had found prosperity through music.

For the first time in my life something foreign moved within me, a venom, perhaps, fueled by ambition and a direct sense of purpose. I revealed my cellphone from my jacket pocket and immediately dialed the number for the human resource department for Danbury Middle School. Within seconds, a jovial voice answered the phone, “Good afternoon, this is Erika, how may I direct your call?” I paused for a moment, steadied my breath, and then said in a tone brimming with certainty, “Hi, Erika, this is Sarah Abrams calling to regretfully decline the job offer I was granted last week.” Shortly after, Erika offered a small, confused, “Oh, okay then. I’m a bit taken back dear, you seemed quite elated the last time we spoke. Is there anything we did that changed your mind?” A brief moment of silence hovered between our phone lines before I answered, “No, nothing at all. Your school is wonderful and I appreciate the opportunity.” Hope beamed from the edges of my smile when I added, “I’m going to teach for the students at Copperfield. I think they’ll appreciate it more.”