We saw Sarah Ruhl’s “The Oldest Boy†at Lincoln Center in December. I can’t recall which December – 2013? 2014? But because it had been so long since we had been in the theater and because of the play itself, Husband and I took turns weeping in the audience of stoned-faced elderly white people (the majority of theater goers in NYC. Not a slam. I don’t mind them one fig. They remind me of lizards moving slowly on top of a rock to catch some sun).
The story revolves around a couple whose kid is the reincarnated spirit of a lama, and the story touches on reincarnation, death, loss, parenting, how to let go of your kid for their own good, and a little somethin’ on the precious bond between teachers and students – at least, those are the bits in the play that I responded to. She wrote a collection of personal essays that mention Shakespeare had twins, as did she, which just made me like her more, as a fellow twin, uh, survivor.
The actors playing monks somehow captured that beatific smile and emanated that same joy that’s always on the Dalai Lama’s face. The monk outfit (what’s it called? Robes? Uniform?) is one-shouldered, so you can show off one buff shoulder and bicep set. I commented to Husband how that was nice because then you only have to work out one arm. He shot me a look.
I was interested in the play because of faux-interest in faux-Buddhism, with its helpful nuggets on coping with and making sense of loss, but I did not expect that show would also be such a valentine to the teacher-student relationship, because the it turns out the threatened loss of her son touches off old wounds for the protagonist mourning the loss of her lit professor.
All of this actually reminded me of how fortunate I was to have Mrs. Garvin, my junior high school teacher, in my life at such a crucial time. We had stopped talking because we stopped clicking and I didn’t want to ruin my fantastic memories with negative ones. I found as I got older, her company actually got on my nerves. I’m not sure if it was because I was outgrowing her, rebelling, or what. . I had met her when I was so young that I always figured I’d find another mentor and I took her for granted. I did not realize she was a one of a kind and this kind of relationship would never happen again.
After watching that play, I thought so what, she spent so many hours listening and talking to me when I was growing up. I mean, if you think talking to me now can sometimes be annoying because I repeat myself and tell jokes that only I think are funny, how odd was my company at age thirteen? So I reached out after many years of silence to thank her.
She was old even back then, so I was scared I may have missed the boat. An old classmate who still talks to her every week told me to skip letter writing and go directly to dialing the phone. (Eeeek!) I swallowed any nerves and called, and I’m so happy I did! She was so positive and loving and encouraging on the phone, it was just like an amazing wave washing over me. We made plans for me to come visit with the kids, but I don’t think it will actually happen. She’s busy with doctor appointments and family, and she was a much loved teacher, so many students trek out to see her. I don’t think I will get on her calendar before she goes, but it’s okay. I’m grateful I got to talk to her and tell her how much she means to me, how much I love her, and how much she changed my life.
I love her, I love her, I love her.