On November 29, 2016, we had a Single Session workshop for the entire Math for America community entitled “A Continuing Conversation: Race, Equity, and STEM Education.” A few weeks prior, you witnessed the country that once felt so full of promise reject its stated values in favor of a man and an administration that outwardly espouses white supremacy and all of its branches. The rest of us had been so accustomed to your unassuming and pensive presence in the spaces you led. But on that night, you took the opportunity to speak up and loudly about the urgency of our conversation and why we were gathered. We could no longer settle for passive voices in the city and in the country you grew to love to grow disappointed in. An auditorium full of the most decorated educators in New York City was a captive audience while you held the tensions of being a white Jewish woman elevating her more racially marginalized counterparts while holding your white counterparts accountable to stepping up in the here and now. You hated crying in front of everyone but needed to use the stage to light a fire under as many (white) people’s pants as possible, perhaps including your own.

I was so glad to play second fiddle this time. You rarely go into situations without a plan. None of this was part of the plan.

The summer prior, we spent time at Twitter Math Camp where I both keynoted and hosted a workshop with you. What people may not understand about our collaboration is that we couldn’t be further apart when it came to preparation. For my keynote, I didn’t know what I was going to say until the night before, and even then I had no idea if I wanted to take more or less time. For our workshop, you wrote out the proposal, tapped my shoulder multiple times from proposal acceptance until an hour before the workshop started to make sure every part was in place. I liked the spontaneity of our interactions. You believed in structure and security. We did this dance the first time we worked together, you assuring that everyone had a clear sense of the task, me helping to make meaning of our teachable moments.

We could have thrown the idea of co-moderation away. But we didn’t. In some ways, we didn’t get to choose. This “Racially Relevant Pedagogy” workshop awaited us. We may not have started it, but we made it ours.

We met at Cafe Frederick to plan for the coming semester of professional learning. You brought a notebook. I brought my Evernote. We had a set of activities to draw from and you were willing to lean into that. But you believed in me when I said “Let’s do something completely different.” We never looked at the activities again. We set out for the semester: four courses where we would go from the individual to the structural through reading, interacting, and interrogating. The first workshop went alright by your standards, but we ran out of time. The activities bled into the second one. We built community with the participants quickly.

Then the election happened. We didn’t plan that. On November 22nd, we – the facilitators and the participants – spent the first half of the workshop mourning with our room, sharing tears, raging at some of the educators out there, and eventually thanking each other for creating a space unlike any other at MfA. We planted seeds together, transforming the room into a space where we could re-imagine what professionalism in education had to look like.

You may have thought that I didn’t need to work with you. But you’re part of the reason I kept going when it felt like the world would pull me asunder. Our times at MfA with our squad gave me every confidence that I needed to keep doing the work while so many forces would negate my very person. Our after-session chats allowed us a moment of respite from the nonsense happening in our schools. I’d watch your face light up when you found a new way to teach your students some math. Your favorite party trick was waiting quietly when the bill came before telling everyone how much they owed and how much money they got back from whatever money they put in. I had my head shake ready. You always asked me what I had going on next and then you’d follow up by either being there or following the event on Twitter.

I miss you, Wendy. You were/are my friend.

Your quiet leadership in our workshops gave other white folks the courage to step into the conversation with whole hearts. You gave people windows into your learning and how many ways you wanted to grow in that learning. You loved your family and spoke of them every time we talked because they were the source of your spirituality. Your faith showed in your work, mostly when no one was looking. You especially loved the children and the people they were becoming in front of you.

You ended up in one of Math for America’s ads. You felt iffy about actually appearing in it, but you loved that everyone could see how happy you were in your learning.

And I know you did this through plenty of personal and professional pain. You truly battled breast cancer with every fiber of your being. You tried several treatments and hated the pity party because you were very much still alive. There was always a quilt, a book, a blog, a class, a tweet, a curio that kept you going until the next day. You seemed genuinely interested in how people were doing, though you also made no bones when you genuinely felt disinterest in something or someone, too. (These were the funny moments, too.)

In our final conversation, you told me what you had planned out for the remainder of the year, the benchmarks you had hoped to set before passing on. You planned out even these last few moments you had with this Earth. A bunch of us got to tell you how much we loved and appreciated you before this last treatment stopped working. You may have passed away from this Earth, but you’re not going anywhere. Your participation in any number of events made the event itself that much more pleasant.

You poured into so many of us, and so many of our wins are also yours.

Between you and me, if you didn’t participate in some of the things you did, I wouldn’t have done them. Not the Twitter Math Camp workshop. Not both semesters of the Racially Relevant workshops we facilitated. Not the White Fragility book club you proposed. Because every time I said “Do we have to?” you’d remind me “Well, if we don’t, who will?” At times, you regretted saying “yes” so often, but it always felt like a part of you knew that “yes” for you meant “yes” to the rest of us to do our part, to make this world better for our colleagues, our families, our kids, and everyone else who stood to benefit from a world that might love them back.

You would have won if you were given more time. But it’s selfish for us to want more of you while you were in so much pain. I’ll choose to remember you for the smiles, the laughter, the squad, and yes, the moments you stood up in your own way.

When co-teaching goes well, you’re always going into the relationship hoping you learn something from your co-teacher. That I did. G-d has Their own plan for us all. Glad They allowed me to co-teach with you.