The Dream Keeper

The Dream Keeper

It was the fall of 1972 and all of my favorite after-school TV shows were canceled. In their stead, were hours of tediously boring congressional testimony on the Watergate Scandal of the Nixon Administration. While this was certainly an annoying inconvenience for a ten year old girl, it paled against the jubilation I felt from my recent move to live with my grandmother in Boynton Beach, Florida. To top it all off I loved my new school and friends, and had the most wonderful teacher I’d ever had before, or after.

Suffice it to say that my life to this point had not been idyllic. I was the eldest of three in a single-parent household residing in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. My mother was a heroin addict, among other things, whose extracurricular activities competed victoriously with her parenting. Therefore, merely a child myself, I had to be a surrogate mother for my brother and sister who were one and two years old at the time. In addition to being laden with more responsibility than was appropriate at my age, I was physically and emotionally abused by my mother. Neglect and abuse trampled me leaving behind footprints of gaping wounds. A glorious day it was indeed when our neighbor came over and told me, “Your mama’s been arrested and your grandmother is coming to get y’all.”

It turned out that my mother was incarcerated for only a few days, and when she came to Boynton to get us, miraculously my grandmother convinced her to let me stay and finish the school year. My grandmother, no doubt, was my Angel of Rescue – she sheltered me that year in a haven of love, calm, and juvenile bliss. Suzanne Degni, my teacher, became my Angel of Hope and Inspiration – she salvaged my mind and spirit from the ashes, and provided the gust of wind that propelled me above and away from the devastation. She did this by proffering to me in her classroom, a healing balm that I could self-administer as needed for the rest of my life – a sweet concoction of art, music, literature and creative writing.

It was in her classroom that I first heard names like Robert Frost, Robert Louis Stevenson, Christina Rossetti, Carl Sandburg, Ogden Nash and Lewis Carroll. Our class perused Frost's "Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening", and I was transported there amidst the tranquility and calm of a snow drenched forest. We drew pictures of the serene tableau evoked by this poem in amateurish artwork. Mrs. Degni's approving smile endorsed these youthful artistic impressions as museum-ready masterpieces.

My spirit soared in exultation on "The Swing" depicted in the verses by Stevenson, and I peeped "over the wall" I had built around myself. Ogden Nash took over and ran with the witty silliness that is his signature in poems like "The Octopus,” and I laughed. Not to be outshined, in walked Lewis Carroll with the bizarre and raucous antics of the endearing old man he portrays in “Father William” and I laughed some more. The humor and lightness of these muses was like a chisel placed in the hands of a skilled craftsman--Mrs. Degni. Cracks were made in the wall with that chisel and then I was able to see not only over it, but through it.

What I saw on the other side was myself armored with imagination and possibilities. The unfamiliar sound emitted through the openings in the wall was the resonance of my own words in the form of my first poetic composition. That poem was called "A Special Present for a Child." With innocent simplicity it conveyed my desire and longing for the security to be found in a functional home with a loving mother. The creation of this poem dawned an awakening in me -- the awakening that takes place when a soul recognizes it has a voice that can be heard; a voice that could speak the truth it knew or wished to know.

Mrs. Degni taught us that year to glide masterfully between the edifying realm of letters and pages, and the illuminating plane of music and song. We heralded a love unrequited as we vigorously belted out a melodious ditty entitled "Soldier, Soldier, Won't You Marry Me." The lyrics outlined an encounter between a soldier and a young maiden anxious to wed him. After meeting all the requests of her object of desire, the maiden is left forlorn and disappointed. In her I found kinship and comfort, sharing her grief in my own broken heart. Misery had needed and found company.

I embraced yet another companion as we scoured the pages of Molly Cone's book, Mishmash. It told the story of a scraggly and unmanageable, but endearing mutt who is sent away and placed in the care of a teacher. I became so enamored with this rambunctious canine that when my grandmother's friend gave me a sickly, fragile puppy, I affectionately named him Mishmash. My Mishmash required constant care and nurturing due to his compromised health. I'm sure the furry protagonist conjured up by Molly Cone, and his real-life namesake, were emblematic for me of my own sense of being damaged and displaced. In loving Mishmash (both mine and Molly Cone's) I was learning to love myself. And like the fictional Mishmash, I too had found a place under a teacher's desk.

As far as I know, never a word was uttered to Mrs. Degni concerning the lachrymose circumstances that resulted in my being one of the many students in her class that year (I don't think my grandmother told her). More times than not, teachers like Mrs. Degni have no idea what has gone on behind the doors their students have walked through before they walked through the doors of their classrooms. By the time our paths intercepted, I was adept at projecting an unscathed exterior that belied the insecurity and depression I felt inside. She never singled me out for any special attention. She just went about her business of doing what exceptional teachers do -- exposing her students to the arts and their own creative potential; the keys that unlock shackles on the soul.

I resumed living with my mother when the school year was over. Although my grandmother' heart was wrenched by having to let me go back, there was nothing she could do. In 1972, child abuse was not a priority as a social concern and often did not elicit intervention by the government. Soon after my return, I ran away and was eventually placed in foster care. I remained a ward of the state until I graduated high school and left for college at the University of Florida in Gainesville. Throughout this journey, whenever my own voice became too weak to be heard, I knew there were many others that could speak for me, and to me.

I’ve often found courage and solace in the voice I discovered in Mrs. Degni's fifth grade class. She created the initial spark that ignited the flame that now burns in me for the written word and creative writing. The tap tap of my keyboard and the magical happenings that ensue literally at my fingertips, perpetually reignite this flame. For her dedication to the arts and children, Suzanne Degni has earned my undying respect and gratitude as the keeper of the dreams of children until they are old enough, wise enough, and strong enough to keep their own.


Author's note: In the early part of 2008 I located Ms. Degni, spoke with her by phone and sent her the above essay. After 35 years she was still teaching, as a college professor in North Carolina.