I am sitting at the Chicago O’Hare Airport this afternoon, and an 11-year-old girl with a “Little Miss Bossy” pink t-shirt starts talking to me. I find out this girl spent a summer at camp, that this week she saw the Cubs wallop the Brewers (15-3), and that she is going into sixth grade in North Carolina, a state where I used to teach middle school language arts and social studies students just like her. Her Nana is a bespectacled and bemused woman with short blond hair and pretty dangling shell earrings. Nana listens patiently as her granddaughter, this spritely spitfire, rattles off how she is at the top of her class in math and science, and how she writes, produces and anchors the morning news crew at her elementary school, and how she loves Junie B. Jones books but not the Goosebumps series because the covers scare her. When the girl tells me she was born in 1998 and that she’s 11, I smile and say I was born 20 years before her in 1978.
Friendship Bread Muffins with hydrangeas from Nicole H. "I'm not into kvetching. I'm into changing the world."Judy Chicago, artist, feminist, and rabble-rouser
She looks at me and smiles, and then says, “Wow. That’s back in the day. You’re as old as my mother.”
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