The Moment

Books were powerful, magical. That delayed dinner changed my relationship to reading. I realized that books could be so engrossing that nothing else mattered. That was the moment I took my first step toward becoming a writer.

Not because of anti-Semitism. I could probably make it in a world fouled with ignorance. I could probably get by on a planet poisoned with petty prejudice and institutionalized hatred. But a world where my mother was right?

That was going to be a problem.

It was a fleeting moment, but it stuck with me. My mother was totally devoted to our family. She served dinner like clockwork every evening, and nothing had ever changed her routine—until that book.

After a few seconds she stepped forward and whispered, “she said, ‘I hate Haylee because she is black and I hate black people.’”

My stomach dropped. She hated me? Just because of my skin? I couldn’t comprehend it.

I think things through more now. I think about whether the risk is worth it, even in snowboarding. I never did that before. I also learned some things happen for no reason. I used to believe everything had a purpose.

Mr. Criche wrote, “Sure hope you become a writer.” That was it. Just those six words. It was the first time someone had indicated in any way that writing was a career option for me

So now, when I teach my own high school classes, I always think of the power of Mr. Criche’s words, and I try to measure and use my own carefully, knowing the impact they might have.

Deeper than food and family, I was a different skin color. In short, I realized I was a white Jewish girl and not black like my girlfriends. No one had ever pointed this out to me before. At that moment of insight, I felt an odd mixture of confusion, disappointment, and awe

Back then, I thought this exchange meant I wouldn’t be alone anymore. I was wrong, insofar as we’re all alone, but never mind.

A few weeks later my mom e-mailed me saying my dad had written her a letter. “A real letter, the first one in twenty years.” In the letter my dad said he had become too focused on business and had forgotten to care for my mom, for people. “This is the real dad I knew a long time ago and I love the changes in him,” my mom’s e-mail said.