I also absorbed tremendous amounts of knowledge and wisdom from women I didn’t know at all, whom I’d observe in brief moments throughout my everyday life: at the grocery store, or in a dentist’s waiting room, or in a public restroom while the lady next to me examined her face in the mirror. I think about this now whenever I catch a little girl staring at me in a public bathroom or in line at the store or across an airport terminal waiting area. I wonder how much of an impact I might be making without my knowing it. As a child, I was a highly adept observer, logging every small detail in just a few seconds. With each new tidbit of womanly knowledge I gleaned, the world of the feminine widened a bit.
In middle school my friend Kati’s mom often invited me over for dinner after school because she knew my dad worked late, and by then I was too old for au pairs but too young to be responsible for meals every night after school, practice, and homework. I probably ate dinner with Kati’s family twice a week. Two family dinners per week is an above-average amount to be eating at your friend’s house, but it was either go to Kati’s where there was a thoughtfully prepared meal or be at home alone. My dad often worked well past the dinner hour and I’d be left to cook for myself. I knew he was doing the best he could, and he cooked great meals when he was able, but I have always loved good food and I’ve never been too proud to seek it out. I think Kati’s mom invited me over not just for my own well-being but also because I genuinely loved the food she fed me and wasn’t shy about expressing my gratitude. With each dish she placed before me, my excitement and awe were palpable. I would ask her, “What is this? How did you make this?” Every week she prepared things I’d never heard of before—osso buco, paella, and other dishes that perhaps were ordinary to her but that I thought were magnificent. She was always more than willing to take the time to answer my questions, like how often she went grocery shopping and how long to boil oatmeal and whether butter should be kept in the fridge or not. I learned that having genuine curiosity and gratitude was the best way to start a conversation with someone I hoped to learn something from.
I’d always ask Kati if we could do our homework at the kitchen table instead of upstairs in her bedroom. The view and the smells in the kitchen were wonderfully distracting, and I think Kati’s mom knew I was watching her. I felt reassured by her presence. I pretended she was cooking especially for me as she layered lasagna and peeled cucumbers, and this made me feel loved in a way that I craved as much as I craved that lasagna. I imagined she laid the pasta sheets down atop the tomato sauce in the same way that she tucked her kids into bed at night. Why focus on algebra, which has been around forever and isn’t going anywhere, when you can absorb something much more fleeting and rare like the sight of a mom making your dinner? I was prepped from very early in life to understand that some things last and some things do not. I always got seconds and thirds at Kati’s house and I even took home leftovers. All I wanted to do was absorb more of that lasagna and more of that mom.
I asked Kati’s mom to help me understand how I could become a good cook like her. Kati didn’t need this knowledge yet, but I needed it now, since I was cooking dinner for myself a couple of times a week. I needed to understand how to love myself like Kati’s mom loved her family. Food is a good way to show love to yourself. The meal I am most proud of was from a recipe Kati’s mom shared with me. It is a beef pot roast that cooks itself during the day while you’re not even home to watch it. Here is how you make it: Place a whole pot roast in the oven in the morning before school with onions and carrots and any spices you like, and then surround it with ice so that it keeps cool throughout the day. Then set the oven timer to turn on around the time that you finish school and the meal cooks while you’re at soccer practice. The best feeling in the world is when you get back from soccer that evening and dinner is ready! I was so proud the first time I made that pot roast and arrived home to find my perfect treasure in the oven after a full day of anticipation. As I ate, I decided that I liked asking moms for advice and that I’d do it more often. In high school, I asked Kati’s mom to help me sew my sophomore Winter Ball dress out of found fabric. She said yes without hesitation. It didn’t feel dumb to ask for help, and in fact, I learned that it felt better to ask for help than to wait until someone noticed I needed it.
Asking for help is a superpower anyone can have but only some people use. It is brave to ask for help. Asking for help is the first step toward finding a mentor. Mentors can help us change our lives if we let them.
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When I went to college, I was drawn to confident women who were older and more experienced than me, women I admired and wanted to emulate. I had already developed the muscle that knows how to seek out mentors, so it was natural for me to transition from getting advice from my friends’ moms to seeking out guidance from my female professors.
I attached myself to one professor in particular, Cynthia Huntington, who was my honors poetry thesis adviser in my senior year. The first thing I asked her was what I needed to do to become a better writer. From my experiences with friends’ moms, I had learned that the best way to get a potential mentor to take you under her wing is to ask for advice and to be specific with your questions, and also to approach the conversation with an air of gratitude and genuine curiosity.
Cynthia told me, quite plainly, that I needed to read a lot more and write a lot more. I loved words, and I needed to consume and create a lot more of them. She taught me how to make writing my craft, just like running was, which meant it would take focus and time and dedication. Writing, like running, isn’t an innate skill that we’re born with—it’s a discipline we can learn and develop. Cynthia told me that if I wrote fifteen poems in a day and just one of them was good, then it was a productive day. She recommended that I write in three- to six-hour chunks of uninterrupted time, not just half an hour here and there. She taught me how to commit to something challenging with assurance. I wanted to be a good writer—but more than that, I wanted to be like Cynthia. She carried herself with confidence. She watched people with curiosity but never jealousy. She liked herself. She made me believe I had control over my own destiny. If I could work toward becoming a better writer by becoming a student of writing, then I could also become the best me by becoming a student of myself.
Cynthia invited me to her house more than once, but the most memorable time was on my twenty-first birthday. I never turned down her invitations and I never said no to a home-cooked meal. She lived forty-five minutes from campus, deep in the woods of Vermont. I didn’t have a car, so she decided that this dinner would be a sleepover. When I was younger I imagined that college would be like this—invitations to professors’ homes and dinner parties—and I was so surprised to see it actually unfolding. I often feel like this when something special happens. At first I wonder how and why this special thing is happening, then, as I have learned, the answer is because I am a lucky person and I try to be the kind of person lucky things happen to. You have to believe you are deserving of good surprises in life. You set yourself up for it. You walk with your eyes open enough to catch the eye of the person who will invite you in. Maybe they won’t but maybe they will. Luck can be cultivated.