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A year ago, my mentor, Dr. Tyrone Williams, passed away. I stayed home to attend his funeral while my family drove to the beach for spring break; this was a decision that had a profound impact on my life.
In the year since his passing, I’ve worked through grief and sadness to discover creativity and passion that had been buried, little by little, year by year, since I was a child.
Over the last 12 months, I have taken 1:1 trips with my kids and these experiences have allowed our relationships to flourish, strengthening our connections in ways I never could have imagined. I’ve reconnected with a best friend who moved to Philadelphia four years ago and my cousin—the closest, most sisterly relationship I’ve ever experienced—since Dr. Williams’s passing. I’ve sought out deeper relationships with the people I want deeper relationships with, including myself.
I’ve learned it’s never too late, unless it is.
When Dr. Williams passed away I felt so guilty and angry with myself, because, truthfully, I should have reached out in the years since graduate school, but I didn’t.
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With this mindset, I decided it was time to reach out to Dr. Norman Finkelstein, another English professor I had at Xavier who encouraged me to dig deeper when looking at a text, to take a step back and observe, examine (he’s big into Freud). A “Finkelstein A” was the Holy Grail, an unattainable achievement that, in my junior year, I achieved.
We’d stayed in touch, dropping the occasional update in our Facebook chat and always wishing each other well on May 30, our shared birthday, 30 years apart.
A few weeks ago, I asked Dr. Finkelstein if he wanted to meet for coffee and he did, suggesting The Fix, a coffee shop located around the corner from his stately, multi-story, century-old home in East Walnut Hills.
There are two locations to get your fix; I went to the wrong place first but was kindly shown—iterally, a twentysomething got out his phone to show me on Google Maps—how to get to The Fix on Woodburn. “It’s right across from Saint Francis De Sales Catholic Church,” he said. I knew where that was. Of course I did.
It was a beautiful early spring afternoon and people were outside, basking in the sunlight the way we always do in Cincinnati, on those hopeful, 70 degree days. Inside, The Fix revealed itself to be a sun-drenched space filled with busily chatting students—and a cardamom-infused, oat milk latte on the menu. Promising signs, for sure.
I hadn’t seen Dr. Finkelstein since the funeral; he read a poem but I, shamefully, left before the service had ended. I was very emotional. We hadn’t talked in person, properly caught up, since I graduated. In 2006.
It was like no time had passed, although so much time had. We caught each other up, providing a Cliffs Notes overview of the last 20 years, births, deaths, moves, jobs, retirements.
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And then we started talking, really talking, about everything and nothing. I told him I was writing a book, that I’d discovered a wealth of creativity in this last year; inspired, in no small part, by Dr. Williams.
“He had that effect on people,” Dr. Finkelstein said, not crying, but emotional. It felt so good to talk about our grief, and then, in the next breath, move on to politics and world events; the stuff of life, as he used to say in class.
“Can we make this a monthly thing?” I asked, perhaps a bit boldly. He smiled and said yes.
And now, we’re making this a regular thing, a monthly meeting of the minds, and this makes me so, so happy.
If you have someone from your past, a teacher, mentor, friend, former colleague, and it’s in your heart to reach out: Do it. In the last year, I’ve come to appreciate the immense value of these moments of connection. I’m seeking them out, being proactive, speaking up. I’m so much happier, living like this, and I think that’s, perhaps, the most wonderful way to honor Dr. Williams.
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