I know I’m not alone in feeling that forming a meaningful, romantic connection can be, well, somewhat challenging here at Notre Dame. As Valentine’s Day looms, it can be easy to slip into a cynical, dismissive view of all of the hearts and roses. But cynicism is not the balm to soothe my lonely, stubborn self. Instead, I choose to remind myself of my favorite love story…
Ms. Callahan was a third grade teacher at a lovely elementary school in New York. Each morning she would arrive at a classroom of young, bright faces ready to learn. From times tables to Charlotte’s Web, the students were taught with great joy and compassion always filled the classroom.
Fairly early in the year, Ms. Callahan was talking about planning and organizing, and shared with her students how she was helping her sister plan her wedding to give them a real life example. One particularly precocious 8-year-old raised her hand during this discussion to ask, “Doesn’t it bother you that your younger sister is getting married before you are?”
Ha, kids say the darndest things don’t they?
Well, it hadn’t really but now I couldn’t say that, Ms. Callahan thought to herself. Brooke, the 8-year-old who asked this question, began bringing in a steady stream of family photos from vacations and special events. It was typical sharing behavior for a third grader, but she always took special attention to point out her uncle.
One afternoon she brought in her father’s business brochure, showcasing her father, father’s cousin and uncle all working together. Ms. Callahan made encouraging comments in the way the best teachers do, but she couldn’t help noticing she kept being redirected to Brooke’s uncle. When she tried to return the pamphlet, Brooke refused to take it back. Instead she told Ms. Callahan that “she would need it.” Ms. Callahan thanked Brooke and proceeded to shove the brochure in a desk draw.
As the year continued, Brooke gave Ms. Callahan tidbits here and there about her uncle.
“He has a Honda, but he used to drive a Mazda.”
“He has a girlfriend, but my mother says he’ll never marry her.”
Brooke’s family was very involved at school. Her mother was the class parent and her grandmother worked in the publishing center. They began to scope Ms. Callahan out as well and brought up Brooke’s uncle. Finally, towards the end of the school year, Brooke’s mother asked Ms. Callahan for her phone number so she could pass it onto her brother-in-law.
Ms. Callahan was rather cautious to engage in any part of this situation. She wasn’t looking for a relationship and didn’t want to be called out for a conflict of interest in going on a date with the family member of a student. She spoke to her principal—a fierce, funny woman who was more of a fantastic mentor than a boss.
In short, her principal assured her they were a great family and told her to go out on a date with him once the year was over. Who knew, maybe they were meant to be? And if they weren’t, they’d never have to see each other again.
Ms. Callahan finally decided to give Brooke’s mother her home number, with the one strict stipulation: “He can’t call me until the school year is out.”
Brooke’s uncle didn’t wait to call the number he’d been given—Brooke’s mother never told him to. When the phone picked up he asked, “Hi, is Ms. Callahan there? I apologize I do not know your first name, I only know you as Ms. Callahan.” They proceeded to talk for four hours.
On their second date, Brooke’s Uncle took Ms. Callahan to dinner and a show in the city (quite the second date, right?). They began the night with dinner at The Manhattan Ocean Club. They sat at a table at the top of the stairs in this swanky, art deco spot. Ms. Callahan ordered shrimp on a bed of chickpeas. As she went to cut the tail off of the shrimp, the knife knocked into the chickpeas and they splayed everywhere. All over their table, flying out to hit the tablecloth of those dining next to them, and all over the floor. Then they rolled behind her, to the stairs. One by one you could hear the beans beginning their descent. Ping. Ping. Ping. Hitting and rolling down the stairs, like beads in a rainstick.
Naturally, Ms. Callahan was mortified; she wanted to crawl under the very table she sat at. Neither spoke of the incident. Ms. Callahan purposefully plowed through trying to pay little mind to the wonderfully embarrassing thing that had caused heads all over the restaurant to turn and stare.
They left dinner to walk to the show, venturing out into the warm May night. Just as she stepped off the curb, for some reason unexplainable by the natural laws of science, Ms. Callahan’s shoe came flying off her foot. Flipping over itself in the air forming a maroon arc in the sky, the pump came to land in the middle of a very busy 5th Avenue.
Ms. Callahan was frozen in place with embarrassment. The following thoughts ran through her head simultaneously: He’s gone. I’m not even going to look next to me. I hope I have money for a cab home. This guy has for sure ducked out.
As she turned, she was sure she’d see only a cartoon like puff of dust from the spot Brooke’s Uncle had just been standing. Instead she saw not one, but two loafers flying through the air. They landed right where Brooke’s Uncle had kicked them off to, next to Ms. Callahan’s lone shoe in the street.
And that is how my parents met and fell in love.
Instigated by an 8-year-old and propelled by an entire family, my parents found each other and knew they were meant to be on only the second date. 8-year-old Brooke is now my cousin with two wonderful, smart and funny little girls of her own. The family that set them up is now my family. Perhaps it’s fair to attribute my high standards and expectations to the fairly insane story of a third grader setting up her teacher and her uncle to be a lifelong match. I, of course, admit my biases in finding such a personal story so magical and exciting. But also, I know I can’t be the only one who feels this could be the plot of a rom-com.
I choose to remember love this week in all of its forms. The love of family, of friends and even of strangers. I will resist the urge to burn roses and throw chocolates in the garbage. Instead, I will remember the love that surrounds me and try to wait patiently, hoping that one day I will find a guy who will kick his shoes off into the middle of the street for me.
P.S. Thank you Mom, for telling me a story you’ve told me a hundred times, but this time for “journalistic purposes.” Also, thank you Brooke, for being persistent. Who knows, maybe I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been.