Someone Else's Bubbeh

Standing at a bus stop, waiting for a bus to take me to the main public library of Brooklyn. I was too exhausted to walk up the the long avenues on such a cold and wet March afternoon. An old lady walked up and asked me if I could see the bus down the slope. I could not and I told her that I had just missed the bus when I walked around the corner. She dropped a metrocard out of her hand as she resettled her belongings. I picked it up... Then she dropped an umbrella. I picked that up as well and handed it back to her. She was grateful and it was nothing but pleasure to me. She reminded me of my own tiny little grandmother whom we called Bubbeh.(pronounced bubby) Bubbeh is a Yiddush word for grandmother. This bubbeh was short, well-groomed and spoke with a Yiddush accent just like mine. She was someone else's bubbeh I thought.

We got to talking and it came up that I was special ed teacher who worked with emotionally disturbed kids. She told me stories of other special educators who she knew of and the injuries that they had suffered as a result of thrown objects and all the fighting in the classroom. I could relate and I told her that there were fights in my class on a regular basis and that there was one that day. It was one of those days where a kid goes out into the hallway and fashions a weapon from a metal plate off the bottom of a computer desk. The moon was full and the hormones and emotions were on high.

It was just about 4:00pm and she told me I needed to go home straight away and get into bed and get some rest. I needed to protect myself and make sure I got enough sleep to handle things. That was exactly what I wanted to do, but I needed to return my library book first. She offered to do it for me... said it was no problem, she lived right across the street from the library. She told me not to worry; her name was Mrs. Schuman and her son was a doctor and daughter was a lawyer and she was indeed someone else's bubbeh!

She had just come back from the beauty parlor where she went once a month. I thought of my father picking up my grandmotherto get hair done. I thought of her small vanity with pride. At the Beauty Parlor, they dyed her hair and teased it into a bouffant and then they gave her a pedicure. This bubbeh, Mrs. Schuman, was just like her but instead of coming to this new world through Mexico, she went through Ellis Island and stayed in New York. I gave her my book, thanked her, kissed her on the cheek, smiled and ambled home.