Much of my time was spent hopping between households growing up with a busy single mother. I spent a lot of time, often longer than a few days at Cathy and Martin’s apartment in Brooklyn Heights. Whenever I was there, I never felt like a guest or an outsider. Cathy always made me feel like a part of the family, both by watching out for me as my own mother would, but also by challenging me and making me think about things I would shrug off as trivial or inconsequential. She helped me learn how to think about issues of social justice and human rights.
When I was struggling to choose my major away at college, I remember calling Cathy, who took time out of her hectic days at the Board of Correction to talk about my options, and help steer me towards human rights. We talked for close to an hour as I nervously paced the tight quarters of my dorm room. She spoke to me as an accomplished lawyer, and as family, helping to ease the stress of my decision.
I will cherish the memories of laughing so hard at the dinner table with Cathy that I couldn’t eat the deliciously spicy food that Martin had cooked. I will still chuckle when I remember these nights, but most of all I will miss Cathy, my second mom.