When my mom told me it was a PS 39 day, I didn’t argue. I hopped in the car with her, drove to South Beach and turned the oval doorknob with the words “Public School City of New York” embossed on the brass.
My mom was an elementary-school teacher on Staten Island, and inevitably there would be a day in late August when she’d need me to help set up her classroom. I’d move furniture, organize closets, and set up borders around bulletin boards. Her colleagues, who were more like family than friends and had likely brought their kids to swim in our pool during the summer, would dote over me and ask about my grades, my job, my high school and college plans.
When I was in high school, I told people I wanted to be a senator someday. When I was in college, I wanted to be a journalist. After college, I was a journalist, for five years. As my journalism career evolved, I found myself frequently drawn to interviewing young people, whom I found to have powerful points of view that were rarely explored in journalism. From asking elementary-school students about role models to interviewing teens about school shootings, I wanted to learn from these thoughtful, intelligent children.
At some point, I also began volunteering as a youth group advisor at my church and as a teacher in an after-school program. Both experiences sparked within me the desire to serve as a role model for young people on a daily basis. I shared with my mom that I might want to switch from the newsroom to the classroom.
“Don’t do it,” she warned me. “You’ll be underpaid, underappreciated, undervalued.”
You know how it goes: Your mom tells you not to do something, so of course you do it.
I began my 28th year in education this month. As the principal of a large public high school, I have a lot to oversee. But I have missed a few days of school this September. My mom, you see, was in her final days, with Alzheimer’s winning its inevitable victory over her.
So I sat with my mom, holding her hand, and telling her about the school year so far. I was holding her hand when she passed, and soon after that I was calling a dear friend who had worked with her and who spread the word to the PS 39 teachers. They had been visiting her regularly in the assisted living home, and they would soon be planning to celebrate her life with us.
After almost 25 years of parenting, I’m often gauging my success as a dad based on the degree to which I’ve served as a role model for my daughters. If I see them helping someone else in the same way I had tried to do myself, I’ll chalk that up as a win. If I see them addressing career, family, civic responsibilities or personal care in positive ways that I’d attempted to model, I’ll take a victory there as well. There are many times when I recognize I could have done better, and the girls are also eager to inform me of those. But as a whole, I’ve spent the past quarter-century trying to show my girls a way of living with passion, dignity and service.
I had a good model for that, in the elementary-school teacher who brought me into the world, raised me and then dragged me over to PS 39 to set up her classroom. All of the colleagues, students, friends, family and neighbors who engaged with my mom were clearly inspired by her care for them, her leadership, her initiative and her sincerity. I wanted to make that kind of difference, both for my peers and for young people. So I followed her lead, in and out of the classroom. I told her all about the things happening in my school, and she listened without lots of judgment or advice. We had our own students and stories, and she respected that.
This week, we’ll celebrate my mom’s life, sharing stories of the difference she made while also sharing some hugs and tears. We’ll spend some time honoring the quiet, clear-eyed commitment that Dawn Hynes brought to this world every day. In the end, everyone learned something valuable from my mom, so it will be a classroom of sorts, with many students honoring a great teacher.
After that, I’ll head back to work, sit down in my office and get back to educating. I’ll glance at the New York City Public Schools doorknob on my desk. It’s mounted on a wooden base, and was a gift to my mom when she retired from teaching. I hold the doorknob once in awhile, my fingers skimming the raised letters. It reminds me of where I came from, and who I’ve committed to being. It reminds me of the reality and relevance of role models.
