My Jewish Professor of Arabic
Tuesday afternoons during my undergraduate years, I would escape the anti-war, black student protests and general pandemonium that Harvard Yard had become. Walking the eight blocks from Harvard Square, I would enter an imposing brick building and ring the bell of apartment 3A. It was the home of my elderly Arabic professor, a German Jew who had escaped the Nazis.
Her name was Ilse Lichtenstadter. I suppose it was because of the emotional pain associated with the Holocaust that she refused to speak her native German but the accented English that rolled off her tongue, remained so heavy that half the time I thought she was conversing in her native tongue. "Connie, you really shouldn't introduce every sentence with "you see...and I mean", she would say.
"Connie you have such a pretty figure. But you hide it under those dungarees and rather large men's shirts you always wear," she often admonished me.
"Connie, tee shirts are fine but I think you should consider purchasing a bra. You'd be such a pretty girl if you decided to put something on your hair to control it." I flushed with embarrassment.
Stokely Carmichael, black power, oh yes, Connie, of course I understand," she announced one afternoon.
So what do you really think of him?" I asked, fidgeting.
"Well to tell you the truth, I think he needs a haircut," she replied and poured us both another cup of tea.
I loved Ilse Lichtenstadter. In life, I had decided, one could not have too many grandmothers. Grandmothers were loving and wise and I ached with the loss of both my black grandmothers. So my heart opened up to having, for whatever reason, inherited a Jewish one. She was so very short, stout and professional. I couldn't imagine that Professor Lichtenstadter might possibly understand the fear and loneliness weighing on me as a stranger, in as huge and frightening an institution as Harvard. Even the red-brick buildings and ivy-covered walls seemed to whisper a cruel and rejecting mantra, that I didn't belong here.
These weekly sessions with my elderly Professor had begun my freshman year at Harvard. I stumbled into her Arabic class by mistake one morning, under an inane bit of confusion that I was about to learn Swahili. But she had a kind smile and I suppose an empathy for this frightened black girl who felt so lost and ill-at ease. She encouraged, prodded and lovingly mentored me through my undergraduate and graduate years. When Ilse Lichtenstadter passed on in the 1980s, she had come to occupy a special place in my heart. To this day I honor her memory through the environment of intellectual nurturance that I try to create for my own students as she had done for me, and with a depth of gratitude that knows no bounds.
Her name was Ilse Lichtenstadter. I suppose it was because of the emotional pain associated with the Holocaust that she refused to speak her native German but the accented English that rolled off her tongue, remained so heavy that half the time I thought she was conversing in her native tongue. "Connie, you really shouldn't introduce every sentence with "you see...and I mean", she would say.
"Connie you have such a pretty figure. But you hide it under those dungarees and rather large men's shirts you always wear," she often admonished me.
"Connie, tee shirts are fine but I think you should consider purchasing a bra. You'd be such a pretty girl if you decided to put something on your hair to control it." I flushed with embarrassment.
Stokely Carmichael, black power, oh yes, Connie, of course I understand," she announced one afternoon.
So what do you really think of him?" I asked, fidgeting.
"Well to tell you the truth, I think he needs a haircut," she replied and poured us both another cup of tea.
I loved Ilse Lichtenstadter. In life, I had decided, one could not have too many grandmothers. Grandmothers were loving and wise and I ached with the loss of both my black grandmothers. So my heart opened up to having, for whatever reason, inherited a Jewish one. She was so very short, stout and professional. I couldn't imagine that Professor Lichtenstadter might possibly understand the fear and loneliness weighing on me as a stranger, in as huge and frightening an institution as Harvard. Even the red-brick buildings and ivy-covered walls seemed to whisper a cruel and rejecting mantra, that I didn't belong here.
These weekly sessions with my elderly Professor had begun my freshman year at Harvard. I stumbled into her Arabic class by mistake one morning, under an inane bit of confusion that I was about to learn Swahili. But she had a kind smile and I suppose an empathy for this frightened black girl who felt so lost and ill-at ease. She encouraged, prodded and lovingly mentored me through my undergraduate and graduate years. When Ilse Lichtenstadter passed on in the 1980s, she had come to occupy a special place in my heart. To this day I honor her memory through the environment of intellectual nurturance that I try to create for my own students as she had done for me, and with a depth of gratitude that knows no bounds.
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