The Best Mentor

I’m looking for photographs of my mentor to put on her memorial website. She was only 55 when she died. She died alone and in pain. Why hadn’t I taken any pictures of her rock climbing? She was a beautiful climber, graceful and strong. Decades before I met her, she had competed internationally. She told of climbing the sea cliffs of England, of needing speed to escape the rising tides.

I met her in 2008. I was 23, she was 42. I was a New York City Outward Bound (NYCOB) instructor. In between leading outdoor trips for inner-city students upstate, I worked at the program center in Queens. A climbing wall spanned the entire back side of the six-story building. The area was industrial and loud: there were horns honking from the Queensboro bridge, Long Island railroad construction, and the squeal of the subway as it turned on its tracks.

She was a successful executive coach who volunteered at NYCOB in her spare time. One afternoon we taught school kids to climb the wall together. As a barely five foot tall Asian woman, she was smaller than many of the kids, but she commanded respect with her confidence. I liked her immediately. After the program was over, she asked if I wanted to climb with her. I hesitated, I weighed at least sixty pounds more than her. She assured me that she could hold my rope with no trouble, that my weight wasn’t anything to be ashamed of.

She taught me about climbing holds and body positioning. She was funny, as I pulled an overhang she commanded “hump the wall.” As I climbed with her, I felt less self conscious about my body. I began to have fun. She was encouraging. She told me I was strong, so I began to feel strong.

Soon we were climbing together regularly and she was inviting me out to bars in her glamorous Murray Hill Manhattan neighborhood. She was like the mayor of every bar, she drew people in, made introductions, helped people network for jobs, played matchmaker, and was always laughing, always spurring others on to have a good time.

I moved away but kept in touch. Usually our emails and texts consisted of me asking her for advice, which she always generously gave. She gave me the best advice I’d ever heard about teaching: that I should allow my teaching voice to be the same as my natural voice, that I didn’t need to posture in order to be taken seriously as an authority figure. She encouraged me to apply for a rigorous wilderness survival program. She made me feel special. She made me feel like my stories mattered.

Years later, I visited her in the city and found her changed. She had lost her job, and her confidence was shaken. She drank more and more. She had wine for breakfast. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. So I withdrew. She had been my mentor, she had always been so strong. Our relationship consisted mostly of her helping me. I didn’t know how to reciprocate.

The photographs I have of her are all from bars. They are from the era of good times: she is surrounded by friends, laughing, and being silly. But bars are how she died. Cirrhosis. She suffered as her liver failed. Ashamed, she did not even tell anyone when she checked into the hospital for the last time.

I wish I had more pictures. There should be photos of her volunteering with kids. There should be photos of her being a mentor, of her encouraging others.

In the spring of 2021 I sent her an email thanking her for all she had done for me. She had taught me to climb, which is how I met my husband. She had encouraged me to tell my stories, and writing now brings me joy. I told her that my life was better because she had been a part of it. She wrote back with her typical generosity and warmth. Just a few months later she died.

I wish I could have helped her. I’m glad she at least knew that I was grateful for her. Looking through my photographs one more time, I found one. It shows her from the back, looking on as I learn how to rappel off the NYCOB building. I wish I could see her face. But the pose was typical of her. I was scared and she was cheering me on, supporting me.

I miss her.