To Believe, or Not to Believe

Passion was my benefactress. Neither Chance nor Fate can take credit for what happened to me this January, though it is human nature to believe in such things. The need to assign an author to the events of our lives has spurred many religions and belief systems, so I don’t blame myself too much for my strayed way of thinking the past few weeks. It took believing in both of those allusive deities to get to where I am now.

About a month ago, students of the public high school in a not so small town in New Jersey returned to class after the winter break. I, being their eleventh grade English Lit teacher, also returned to my daily routine after the holiday hecticness. Unlike many of my students, I was happy to get back to it. Having only been a teacher for two and a half years, I often wonder if my eagerness to get out of bed and educate the masses will fade over time. Observing many veteran teachers at my school would confirm that theory. Ms. Vaughn has always been the exception.

Ms. Vaugn taught English literature to the seniors at our high school. She was 71 years old and as zealous in her desire to transform young minds as she was when I took her class eight years ago and when my mother took her class back in the late seventies.

It was her love of the classics- Jane Austen, the Brontës, Tolstoy and Shakespeare- that changed me from an uninspired eighteen year old on the brink of going to college sans direction, to a young woman who finally had purpose.

When Ms. Lillian Vaughn opened up a book and started reading, whether it was to a classroom of distracted students or a fellow literary fiend, it was captivating. Something in the way she hung on to the end of a sentence as she looked out at her audience, eyes ablaze, driving home the author’s full intent stirred the emotions. She was the reason I started reading books not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

When I started teaching, I was constantly aware that I wasn’t much older than my students. My confidence, however, was always bolstered by Ms. Vaughn. I felt lucky enough to call her a colleague and mentor.

But by the end of our first week back from the holidays, I felt slightly dispirited. Every kid at Hawthorne High seemed to disremember how to sit still and look forward. Ms. Vaughn, with her characteristic all-knowing smile, reminded me that this was simply part of the school year life cycle. She assured me that with each passing week the students would become more content and focused, and then spring break would hit, interrupting the bliss. The cycle continued.

I recapped my first week back to my parents over dinner that weekend. I always welcomed an invitation from my mom to go back to my old home and enjoy a home-cooked meal.

“I’m starting them off with Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. We’ll finish going over it right at the 207th anniversary of the novel’s publication. I was thinking we’d have a little class party that day in Jane Austen’s honor. What do you think?”

“That’s great! I like how you try and keep the kids engaged,” my mom said.

“Ms. Vaughn liked the idea, too. She likes to do a celebration on the 23rd of April for Shakespeare- his birthday and the day he died.”

It was right at this time when my left palm started itching and I began scratching it vigorously.

“Looks like someone’s about to come into some money,” my dad remarked.

“What?” I looked up from my hand, confused.

“Oh, you know, the old superstition that you should expect money when your palm itches.”

Monday morning when Ms. Vaughn didn’t show up, I knew something was wrong. Our classrooms were next to each other, and as long as we weren’t crunched for time, we’d chat over our morning cup of coffee. Occasionally, a teacher would get sick and I’d get a call from the school receptionist asking to check on a class until a substitute teacher could arrive. So when I saw that Mandy, our school receptionist, was giving me a ring that morning, I imagined that was the case with Ms. Vaughn. Mandy delivered that very request coupled with some terrible news. Lillian Vaughn had passed away.

That week a sadness enveloped the school. Ms. Vaugn had been so loved. Many of the teachers came to check on me, knowing I was close to her. I was also tasked with going through her belongings at her desk. I left her lesson plans and books to help the sub, but I brought back to my desk a few of her personal items: a floral compact mirror bearing her lovely initials, a bronze paperweight she bought as a souvenir from The Globe Theater in London, and a small black notebook that she used to jot down her favorite quotes from various books. She would often hand the notebook over to me, pointing to a passage she had just transposed, with an exuberant, “Read this!” I’d read the quote, and then we’d discuss the author’s meaning and how it related to us personally. I realized we’d never get to share those moments again.

Friday afternoon as I was packing up for the weekend and making small talk with the substitute teacher, my ears started ringing. It was that awful sound, as if cicadas were buzzing. The sound gets more awful as soon as you realize it’s winter, meaning there are no cicadas out, and the ringing is heard by you alone. I apologized to the sub and asked her to repeat what she last said since I was distracted by my ears ringing. The lady, similar in age to my parents, remarked, “Someone must be talking about you!”

The dissonance died down about a minute later, but shortly afterwards, I got another call from Mandy at the front desk. She had just spoken to the executor of Ms. Vaughn’s will who had asked for my personal number. She had given it to him and wanted to let me know that I should expect a call later. That night I was informed that Ms. Vaugn had left me $20,000 dollars.

I knew Ms. Vaughn didn’t have a lot of family, though I was utterly shocked that she chose to bequeath such a large sum of money to me. Why me? I tried to push back any guilt, reasoning with myself that it was just chance. I happened to be her closest work friend when she made her will. She could have willed the money to any of the other teachers. Yes, the goddess of chance had just bestowed its favors upon me, albeit, through a tragic circumstance.

It did not escape my notice that two superstitions had played out in relation to Ms. Vaughn’s passing. My itchy palms and the ringing in my ears. I had, indeed, come into some money and the executor of the will had been talking about me on the phone with Mandy. When I shared these strange events with my parents, they then made matters worse by declaring, “Things happen in threes!”

The whole school paid tribute to Lillian Vaughn. We donned the school with lilies to complement her name and held a beautiful memorial service to honor her edifying legacy, at which I recited some of her favorite Shakespeare.

In the midst of everything I couldn’t help but be on the lookout for some kind of message. I was hyperaware of obtrusive ladders, dropped coins, and the number thirteen. Perhaps it wasn’t chance, but rather fate that led the money my way. Maybe I was meant to have it, and if I stayed on my guard, I would recognize a meaningful third superstition.

I read through lists of superstitions online so that if something else happened I would know how to read it. My biggest takeaway, now that $20,000 had been given to me, was never to set my purse on the floor. Apparently, that was the surest way to lose money!

After a couple weeks on superstition watch, I was exhausted and nothing had really happened. Either the gods were playing a mean trick on me or I was wasting my time and attention.

Then one Sunday night as I was preparing the upcoming week’s lesson plans, I had one of those classic, but all too rare, aha moments. I was highlighting notable Jane Austen quotes to discuss with the class. One quote from Emma jumped out to me:

“I thought you cleverer; for depend upon it, a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it.”

Chance and fate had been constantly on my mind as of late, so the talk of luck resonated. The quote seemed to denounce coincidence. It suggested that behind chance there is a more controlled force at work - talent.

I had been carrying around Ms. Vaughn’s black notebook full of quotes with me, but I had yet to open it up. I knew that seeing her handwriting and the quotes that she had shared with me would bring back bittersweet memories. Now was the time. I had this newfound desire to continue where she left off. I would continue her collection of quotes, and this could be my first contribution.

I followed the placeholder ribbon to the center of the notebook which divided the filled pages with the empty. There, at the top of the last page of writing was a quote:

“The person born with a talent they are meant to use will find their greatest happiness in using it.” ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It felt as though Ms. Vaughn was speaking to me through literary devices. It wasn’t luck, chance, or fate that brought me to teaching, but rather Ms. Vaugn’s inspiring talent. I should follow her example and continue to fuel my passion for learning and teaching. Forget superstition!

She had decided to leave a fellow passionate teacher some money, and the only sign I should be reading into was that she believed in me.