It may seem like an odd bond: A 54-year-old petite Indian woman, her student and Allen Iverson. And it started in an eighth-grade literature class, of all places.
The bond began when I wrote a 15-page report about basketball player Allen Iverson. The woman was my teacher, Mrs. Rani Chandran. She stood no taller than 5’2”, had a slight accent, and held an intensity in her eyes that burned into your soul.
She didn’t know much about Iverson. But when she read my report, she told me it brought tears to her eyes. Those words changed my life.
Mrs. Chandran and her words are the reason I’m taking photos and writing for Mosaic, the two-week journalism workshop that produced this issue. She’s the reason I have a passion for journalism.
A cruel twist of fate brought Mrs. Chandran, Allen Iverson and me together again a few days ago. It also brought tears to my eyes.
I was in the passenger seat of my editor’s car, on my way to a Mosaic photo assignment. I had my Canon 10D on my lap, had just put my reporter’s notepad in my backpack and was wearing my white No. 3 Iverson jersey.
That’s when my cell phone rang.
It was a friend of mine. He made small talk at first. Then he dropped the bombshell.
“Mrs. Chandran died in a car accident,” he said.
He said it a few times before it sunk in.
She died June 23 when a pickup truck coming from the other direction struck the Buick she was riding in on her way home from a family vacation at Yosemite National Park.
Before I knew what was happening, the tears started to fall. My mascara smeared. My eyeliner rubbed off. And a whole box of tissues sat clenched in my fist.
My editor said she would take me off the assignment, if I wanted, if I needed some time to re-group and talk to my parents.
The first thing I thought was that I should be professional and see the assignment through. Then I reminisced about Mrs. Chandran’s personality and how, with everything she did, she wanted to bring out the best in her students.
She was not an ordinary teacher. Class started off every day with a, “Hey homie, what’s up? Show some love,” followed by a high-five — in an eighth-grade literature class. In that classroom, she helped her students bring their writing to life. Especially mine.
I wanted to finish the story, for her. I felt like it was the least I could do. After all, her belief in me and those intense eyes inspired me to write. She sparked a love for journalism that blazes like American patriotism did after Sept. 11.
It hurts that I’ll never see those eyes again.
Through her guidance and mentoring, I found my voice. The dramatic fragmented style that I loved to use so much was never criticized in her class, but instead polished. Mrs. Chandran’s inner beauty was reflected in her students, and each one left her class a better person.
The better me sits here today, in a newsroom, at a keyboard, writing this column and once more wearing that white No. 3 Iverson jersey. When I put it on now, it has a completely different meaning.
I used to think of Allen Iverson and what he meant to me as a basketball player – my motivation.
Now, I think of her, too —her beauty, her inspiration, her deep brown eyes that tore through my heart as I looked into them for advice.
I will remember a petite Indian woman who lived for her students and expected nothing in return. I will play every game, write every article and take every photograph as though it was my last, because that was the way Mrs. Rani Chandran lived.