The Warmth of History

Today as I walked through the halls of a school I have known all but five years of my life, I was struck by the influence the place has had and continues to have on my life.

I started there in kindergarten and stayed through twelfth grade.  I returned through my college years to visit and to assist on field trips.  I went to a couple of fund raising parties and generally had fun with the place.

I went on to volunteer every year, serving on the Alumnae Executive Board, on which I still sit, taught, worked at the their camp, even went so far as to enroll my daughter and watched her graduate.

I have seen three new portraits of former heads of school,  rise to the walls.  I have watched in dismay as buildings were torn down and in amazement as new ones went up.  Furniture has come and gone, hell blackboards have come and gone. Many of my teachers have died, I might go so far as to say most of them and a few of my peers as well.

Last year I finally found and met with one of my most important teachers from Lower School; an art teacher of course.  She was as kind, intelligent and thoughtful as I remembered her.  Today I found I have been working with the son-in-law of my Lower School French teacher, another outstandingly kind and intelligent woman. I was delighted to hear news of her and sent her a message of gratitude and affection.

Those old crusty walls of the buildings I know like the back of my hand, are like the walls of my childhood bedroom; they know me.  Unlike my bedroom walls though, they know hundreds of students and bind us together in a common experience. The unity of that group of people, is that we, faculty, students, and the staff of every single department, worked together towards our common goal; waking our minds.  We did so very well.