There’s something about others that I’ve learned to borrow … qualities I’ve admired, gathered, and added to myself over the years. Things I measured as good, as worthy. Like souvenirs of the soul. And in that way, you could say I’ve lived a life made up of beautiful, stolen identities.
I remember Mrs. Jordan: my 11th and 12th grade math teacher. She brought math alive for me. A Black middle-aged woman with noticeably greying hair she wore awkwardly combed to the side. She was brilliant. Unapologetically smart. In the middle of a large, noisy classroom at Cody High, I felt seen. What I took away was simple but foundational: Black women can be smart, educated, and love things like math. She became a shero.
For some reason, my 8th-grade homeroom teacher’s name slips my mind. But I see her in my memory as clear as day: her glasses, the shawls draped over her blouses, her quiet authority. She also taught science and had a way of making things plain—accessible to my awakening mind. Somehow, all the insecurities of middle school faded in her presence. I noticed the way she spoke, the precision of her words, her ability to correct firmly without ever making you feel unloved. In my imagination, she was the perfect mom. I used to picture her children, imagining how much love they must have received. What I took away from her was this: there’s a way a woman can be that causes others to feel at home. And that Black women could embody poise and grace.
When I was twelve, I went away to music camp. My sister had gone. My brother before her. Now it was my turn. In between the showtunes, Broadway choreography, and whispered hair secrets about gel that made your waves pop in a slick ponytail, there was a girl. An older teen. I don’t remember her name or even her face, but I remember her essence. She called everyone “sweetie” or “sweetheart.” I was amazed. That wasn’t the language of my house … not even from my grandmother, whose smirk said, “Marty, I love you,” without ever saying it.
But this girl used endearments like grace notes—easy, effortless. And something in me shifted. I realized I could remake myself. I told myself: When I have someone to love, I’ll call them sweetie. I couldn’t start with the people already in my life—we had a culture of mocking good things. But I waited.
When I had my first serious boyfriend, the words came naturally. Like they’d always been mine. “Sweetie.” When I met my husband, he became my honeydew melon. I called him honey, sweetie, babe—anything warm, anything true. Because he made me feel safe. Because I wanted him to know I loved him. And then our kids came, and they were my honeys, my sweethearts. The love I borrowed from a girl at music camp multiplied. I poured it out on everyone who would let me.
There’s something to a longing heart … the desperate desire to become more than what you’ve known. To love more than you were ever loved. To become the kind of woman you’ve never seen in real life.
Now at 46, when I walk through the grocery store, down school hallways, or across the playground—where other people’s kids call out “Mrs. Griffin!”—Mrs. Jordan answers. My 8th-grade teacher answers. That girl from music camp answers.
“Yes, sweetie. What do you need?”
And in my heart, what I hope they feel—my children, my husband, and’ kids at school—is that they are loved. That they are surrounded by love.
Because love can be borrowed. And if you hold it long enough, it becomes your own.
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Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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