Gifts of Love

There were times in my last few months of headmistress-ing that I thought what I did best was love. You do not find love on many resumés, but I am very good at loving. I learned, this spring, however, that receiving love is harder than doing the loving—I’m inclined to swat away the moments when people tell me I matter, yet leaving Laurel helped me allow myself to be loved in the same way that I have loved—for a long time—our school community.

The school had known for more than a year that I was retiring, but in early May, as I began to pack up my office, the awareness that I was really leaving seemed to hit both the girls and me. For a long time, leaving didn’t seem real; I pushed it to the back of my thoughts. There was so much to do—plays to direct, classes to teach, plans to make. My husband did the lion’s share of the preparations for our move, while I dissociated a little bit, focusing on what was in front of me each day as a way of avoiding the inevitable.

But at the front door, in the freezing Cleveland spring—gloves in May!--I began to note the number of girls who stopped for a hug or a high five, who paused for a quick conversation before being carried into the building on a sea of jumpers and skirts and lacrosse sticks and Stanleys.

“Ms. Klotz,” a fourth grader offered, “I know what you can do when you retire. You can work at Costco because you’re very cheerful when you greet people.” 

I grinned. Good to have options.

My office, long a destination for Upper Schoolers seeking candy—as long as they were willing to have a conversation with me—seemed to fill more often with more students as I started to pack boxes. Students lingered, telling me about a particular test or prom preparations or passing (and occasionally not passing) their drivers’ tests. Some asked for a keepsake; I distributed toys, mementoes. Aleka stood in front of my desk one afternoon, explaining that I was the reason her parents chose Laurel for her. I smiled hard, willing myself not to tear-up.  Messages appeared on my white board, which doubled as the narrow door to my private bathroom. “We love you, Ms. K.” scrawled in blue Expo marker with hearts.  Those last weeks were a love fest.

The girls have always known I love them and am willing to drop everything if one of them needs me. I have always walked the halls, popped into classes, made it my practice to know each child’s name and—when possible—something about her family.  Sometimes, it seemed the heart of school leadership was to see the members of our community, to let them know I was paying attention, noticed their moods, checked in when someone seemed sad, greeted a child back from an illness or an injury, stopped to chat in the hall for a few minutes. A snippy colleague once said, “Of course kids behave for you—you’re the Head.” I bit back what I wanted to say, which was, “No, they behave for me because they know I love them.”  Perhaps both are true, but throughout my time as a teacher—now more than four decades—most kids have done as I ask because they know I have their back, they know I care. Twice this year, I shared the hard news that girls had lost a parent. I wase one of the many grownups who helped friends learn how to stand by the side of grieving friends. I reminded the classmates that while they would move on with their lives fairly quickly, their friends would grieve for a long, long time. This year, I was grieving, too, not for someone’s death, but for my departure from a community that has shaped my identity as much as being a mother or a writer or a teacher has.

A few weeks into my retirement, I thought about Aleka, almost a senior now, and felt sad that I will not hear her Senior Speech or hug her before she crosses the stage at Severance Hall in her white cap and gown. The sorrow comes and goes—I remind myself there are things I won’t miss, too—endless meetings, unhappy people, rising costs, unexpected resignations.  It’s good to remind myself of the less savory parts of the job. But in these early weeks away, I am mostly recalling love.

At the very end of the school year, notes and small gifts arrived. Ava gave me a tiny anchor necklace. Meera, knowing I am a writer, chose a journal for me and two purple pens; a family with four Laurel daughters gave me an exquisite quilt in Laurel green and white, with the years of my service as Head accidentally extended by a decade! Other head friends sent bouquets, letters, texts. Kate and her family had a marvelous lazy-susan made, each sixth of the circle showing an image of LS4G: the ring, Kate doing a handstand, my candy jar, the front of the school, the school seal, and our gator mascot! What a privilege to be the recipient of so much love. I am woefully behind with my thank you notes, but writing a few each day. I remember those incredibly generous gestures, those visits, those—it is only now, a few weeks later, that I can fully acknowledge how moved I was to be loved by so many I loved.

Cia and Liv, two basketball players I adore, came to the house shortly after school got out. They brought with them a weighted stuffed Stitch of Lilo and Stitch fame and pressed him into my arms. I recognized his velvety blue skin, his large ears, though his was not a movie that resonated.  

“We wanted you to have him,” they said. Their teammate, Sidney, had been in a bad car accident earlier in the spring, but she had had Stitch in the car with her, and had, miraculously, been uninjured, so they explained that they wanted me to have my own Stitch as I left town. I hugged them hard. Stitch as an amulet, Stitch as my protector.  On our very last day in Cleveland, Cia and Liv and two more of their teammates, Jordyn and Nyla, arrived, unannounced, at the house—we had planned to get ice cream, but the plans kept falling through and we were out of time.

“We’re just here to help,” they offered. And we put them to work, packing the cooler with all the frozen food, lugging boxes, shredding documents. They were amazing, and we were so grateful for their sudden, generous appearance. When they left—off to practice, I did cry—hard. As I did when Julie, our alumnae director and my editor of choice, dropped by with coffees—again, unexpected and so generous. Somehow, hugging those four girls and Julie made it all seem real, this move of ours.

Here we are in Pennsylvania, boxes still piled high. Progress is incremental, Sisyphean. It is hard to find any place to put anything. Some days, we get more done than other days. I find myself eavesdropping shamelessly when little girls pass by our porch. I smile inanely at adolescents who do not know me. I’ve been searching for the box that holds the fairy garden I set out last summer—it hasn’t turned up yet, but one day soon I will discover it and set it up again in the roots of the pine tree outside our back door and think about other fairy gardens and little girls that I have known and love.

I’ve been taking pictures of Stitch doing silly things and sending them to Liv and Cia. Stitch taking a bath; Stitch in the laundry basket. Stitch on the swing. I’m playing Flat Stanley with him. While I can’t recall about Stitch from his movie, I am loving the plush one who lives in my house with me now, the one who was a gift of love.