Hamida's Hello

  by Elizabeth Olejnyik   

 “Hello Elizabeth,” Hamida said, “Come in.”
        I hesitated because I knew I eventually would be alone.
         The forest could be dark.


        I thought about my past, its cross roads, the colorful landscapes, and my teacher and advisor, Dr. Hamida Bosmagian. I was like the old woman disciple at 45 when I entered her office at Seattle University. She invited me into the forest on a journey of enlightenment and literary insights. Her “hello“ influenced the woman I am today.

        I grew up in Cleveland Ohio where a handful of state parks provided forests, creek-jumping and chain-anchored picnic tables. My neighborhood was in a box labeled “Little Hungary” packaged within Buckeye Roads to 116th Street and 123rd Street.  Life was richly flavored with the Hungarian language and Budapest immigrants. Smells of cayenne and paprika wafted from the butcher shops and my grand mother’s kitchen. The 5 am Strudel shop’s window lights spot lit the three women in their flowered house dresses, aprons and babushkas as they moved like dancers around their table, stretching dough with the backs of their hands, and stirring  pots of cherries, apples, cheese and poppy seed. Grocers had out door stands with Easter Lilies and Hyacinths. St. Margaret’s Church and school held harvest festivals with Czardasz violin players. I twirled in my white pleated skirt and red velvet crown. I wore the Mary’s blue veil in the Christmas pageant, and a wedding gown in the May Crowning.

        My life as a Hungarian girl became "modern" with a move to the suburbs and an all girls high school, then on to St. John’s Hospital School of Nursing.  Then as a married woman there were more cross roads, Washington and Central on the west side of Chicago in a second floor apartment. I rocked my children, watched the star frosted windows melt into coal puddles on the sooted window ledge, and waived to my red headed neighbor lady in the alley as she pulleyed black underwear next to my line of diapers.

        Onward I went to Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington State, Viet Nam for my husband Jim, and Base housing. The “Red Alert” said it all as I stood on “The Survival School” bluff where my children held onto my legs beneath the every five-minute take offs of the B-52s and the KC-135s. After the Air force, Cleveland then Seattle.

        Jim the children and I settled into our good full lives in a “house with a view.” I felt like a jester juggling fire trucks and an Oreo cookie sandwiched between six wondrous children and my homebound elderly parents.

        September 1984, 8:30 am. Appraising the young students, I nervously walked down the Seattle University campus path into the 90 year old liberal arts Marion Building. There I found the 2nd floor office of Dr. Hamida Bosmajian, department chair. I knocked, “Come In” she said with a soft German accent, and "hello Elizabeth."

        I entered a small “enchanted” office space. Posters overlapped one another so “Red Riding Hood,” “The Three Bears”, a gold crowned frog prince, “Hansel and Gretel”, and “Prometheus” joined hands above shelves of text books, fairy tales, poetry and prose.

        Hamida sat behind her desk. She wore gray slacks and a crisp white blouse with a silver raven pinned to the collar. With a direct gaze she asked if I would mind if she ate lunch.

        “I will be your advisor. You can begin your studies in my Children’s Literature Class.” As a commuter non-traditional student, it will be a challenge, “she said.

        During that first quarter my brain swam with images of symbolism, sibling rivalry, metamorphosis, animals as humans, sexual maturation, tricksters, and names in Children’s Literature. Hamida taught me about forests, doors and hiding places; jealous sisters in the Cinderella  household; the warty frog who was a prince; the awakening of a sleeping beauty; wiley Willy Wonka in the bowels of the chocolate factory; and the lovely children in the country side of Greene Knowe. Each  morning I couldn't wait to slip in my last row seat until Dr. Bosmajian entered the classroom in Pigott   Hall. Just as I anticipated snowfall in the opera, "La Boheme" and Hamlet's "To be or not to be" I watched Hamida unpack her briefcase, take center stage like a well rehearsed actress and begin to lecture. With a clear strong voice she read many  "Once upon a times" but I will never forget when she read the Holocaust poem, "Landscape of Screams." Her voice was  not silenced with memories of Nazi Germany. Gentle tears  covered quiet words. Hamida spoke and taught with passion, empathy and compassion. She loved her students.  I loved her because she opened the door out of my kitchen and into a forest windblown with words.

        I learned to look within the patterns and beyond the nursery rhymes. Fairy tales and the Brother’s Grimm I read aloud to my own children. Hamida stressed "the profound journey and the authentic life." She lived it and wrote about it. She guided me into realms of fantasy which helped to cope with life and death, the ego,the world and the universe. Simply, movement within forests, clearings and castled spaces allowed for growth and maturity in  the quest of an ordinary life.

        I cherished the child within others and myself. I asked my youngest daughter, Laura - age 8 - , "Why  do you like the story, Ramona Quimby, Age 8? She said "Because she is just like me." Hamida challenged with "Just like  me."The child had a voice to be heard and a life to unfold.

        Changed inwardly I proved victorious in that small quiet alone world of forest and the large world of myself. I returned to Hamida's office. "Hello, Elisabeth," she said.  "I'm glad you enjoyed my class. Let's look at the winter quarter. "How are you taking care of yourself? You must be a very busy woman." I said " Coming to Seattle University is a gift to myself. I must make time to read, write, think and learn. You have encouraged and inspired me. Thank you."Hamida's "hello" remained with me as I studied beyond  the rhyme and fairy tale. Over time, Hamida's teaching  guided me out of the dark into a clearing where I join the voices of T.S. Elliot's women who  "come and go talking of Michelangelo."

        My gratitude goes to my husband, Jim, and my children, Anne, Tim, Lisa, Steven, Mike and Laura whose image was that of a woman at the kitchen table where my books were open and I contemplated the flowering plum tree in the back yard.