Beloved Educator, Mother, and Friend
We will miss you so much Mrs. Davis! No one can replace you, and I do not say this lightly. Jonathan was completely correct when he said that you were a wonderful teacher. I know how you are very hard on yourself when something goes wrong. You did your very best trying to adapt to zoom and online, I have learned so much from the period of time you were with us. Thank you, I appreciate your patience, honesty, and kindness.
Dearest Fran and Jonathan, Where to begin? I am at a loss and it’s difficult to shape my thoughts, but what leads true and bright is the immense gratitude in having your light shared in my life. I carry you with me throughout life; in my memories of reenacting Macbeth monologues in class, looking at ivory and gems you brought in to make the Heart of Darkness come alive, analyzing the lines of Eleanor Rigby, “ s, cc s”, but most importantly: confidence. You always believed in us, in all of your students. You stayed late, you showed up, you encouraged and you cared. You modeled authenticity and generosity, kindness and compassion. There is no one like you, Mrs. Davis. And you taught us to embrace the different and own your voice. Jonathan, you have been such a special friend growing up and throughout life. I hold you close to my heart. I am so sorry for the difficult road you have both had to walk this past year with the loss of Alan and now this shocking news. You both have truly shaped my life in many unspoken ways, and I am not the only one. Thank you for being you. You are on my mind and in my heart. Lovingly, Allie (Whitcomb) Weinberg
Fran, I will always remember your love and dedication to your students. You were a great role model for me when I started teaching because of the compassion you had not only to teach English but to also make kids and anyone else around you better people. I will never forget the one time a kid sent you over the edge and you cursed at him. Rather than turn him in for misbehavior, you turned yourself in. If only more of today’s youth could emulate your conscience! Smile from the joy of knowing that your gifts made the worlds you were a part of, including mine, better places. Peace. Jodi
Francine, I LOVE YOU! I remember vividly the Montage video of you teaching writing to your kids at Killian way back in the ’80s. I also have the memory of you telling us how Mr Hood explained the meaning behind the lyrics to “Lady Marmalade” in the car. I will never forget the laughs we shared, and how you taught us all LINKS, and now I see the whole lesson was really teaching us when to pause, and when to forge through. We are all pausing now, commas perfectly in place, to reflect and pay tribute to you, Francine Davis, a legend I am proud to call my friend. Thank you for your WISDOM and ENERGY! We are now all inextricably LINKED because of you. I hope one day to be half as awesome as you, Francine! I LOVE YOU, FRANCINE DAVIS!
Thank you Mrs. Davis for everything you did for me in high school! From dissecting symbolism with “The Great Gatsby” to learning Links (honestly the best thing I learned in high school that I still use to this day), you made me see English class as not only about reading literature but also looking beyond the words. Each day of class was unexpected yet full of fun. You always smiled in class and made my return trip to Riviera Prep campus two years ago very special. I’ll make sure to have a slice of Seal Beach pizza for the both of us!
If you ever wondered what our joy looks like, it is Francine with her son Jonathan!
It is with a heart full of sadness that I write to let you know that my mom, Francine, has entered the final stage of her life, and she has started the process of passing away. My heart is also full of appreciation and gratitude that Francine is my mother — and that she got to be a mother and sister to so many of you.
Fran has aggressive stage IV cancer. It has spread throughout her abdomen and has significantly compromised her liver. The origin of the cancer could not be found. Although we considered chemotherapy with her doctors, due to the advanced nature of the cancer and her overall weakened condition, we all quickly came to the decision that treatment is not a viable path and will likely lead to complications of toxicity and a lower quality of life without much of a chance of doing anything. So we have chosen palliative care and have begun working with hospice.
For those of you having a hard time believing this because just a month ago you had seen or spoken with Francine and she was up to her busy, normal activities of living and teaching, that’s correct: just a month ago she was in seemingly excellent shape as per usual. And I too have a hard time understanding this. I don’t know if this is true, but I believe that my mom was in such great overall shape that it masked what was happening beneath the surface, until it was too late. She did all the things she was supposed to: check-ups, cancer screenings, exercise, and eating well. This is definitely one of those unbelievable cases of “she was so healthy and it came out nowhere.” To put it simply, it’s a shock.
A quick timeline for those of you who want to know. One month ago she started experiencing some abdominal discomfort and loss of appetite. This was pegged to possible sadness around upcoming anniversary of Alan’s passing, the state of the world, etc. After it persisted for 3 weeks, along with an increase in shortness of breath, she admitted herself to the ER for testing. Within a few hours tests showed that some form of cancer had spread to the liver. She spent a week in the hospital for observation and testing. A few days after getting out, this past Tuesday, we were told together at the Miami Cancer Institute that it’s a highly advanced stage of cancer, with an unknown origin as of the latest set of tests, and a recommendation not to treat. Her physical decline has been quick since coming home from the hospital.
I will note for the record that my mother was told she had cancer on November 13th — the one year anniversary of Alan’s passing from cancer, her husband and my father.
Despite the tremendous weakening she is experiencing, Francine is somehow in excellent spirits. She immediately moved into Acceptance of the harsh reality. And she has been beyond Graceful with the process of, well, dying. She’s not worried about herself, but more her community, and anything that’s left on her to do list. She is still trying to knock out reading and grading some essays even after hospice and aid is now here. She says she “owes them.” And of course she’s in endless planning, doing, and chatting mode. Imagine her in her very slight Jewish New York accent sitting from the couch or in bed: “Get the deed to the house before we forget… Move my bed to the left, no to the right, we need to make room for the hospice bed… Give me my laptop, I know what I’m doing, I owe those papers… Look don’t take this the wrong way… Let me give it to you straight… Can ya imagine…” etc etc.
One of her only gripes is she did not get to do the traveling she had planned for her imminent retirement. That one is really hard for me. I cry writing this because all of this is so undeserved, but especially that. But even then, she herself has moved beyond it and exudes a level of acceptance and peace that is amazing, and somehow makes this extremely hard time a little bit easier.
Despite the fact that this next phase of life is no longer available, it should be noted that she lived a beautiful life, with a beautiful family, with lots of adventures, and lots of laughter. And, of course, in addition to her friendships and relationships, it’s her career that is truly her legacy.
She began teaching in 1971, so this marks her 50th year of teaching high school English. In those 50 years she has inspired and touched the hearts of thousands of people. For those of you who have worked with her or were taught by her, you know I do not say that merely as a platitude or kind gesture. She is the queen, the jester, and the servant of the classroom. It is impossible to pay tribute to her as an educator. Her standard of care and work quality is ridiculous; her work ethic unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. My entire life, from as early as I can remember until now, she never ever rested from school. Preparing every day to create the greatest day of class that she could. And slaving over grading essays, nights and weekends — no essay ever just given a quick grade, but always a fully marked up paper with as much feedback and guidance as she could provide. She went way above and beyond for every student… and parent… and administration. She always subtly and humbly enjoyed hearing these reflections and affirmations from those who gave them. But she could never really accept and take in those well-deserved accolades, not even to this day. I don’t know why. But I do know that proper teaching is one of the most important, inspiring, underpaid, and thankless professions I can think of. It was her life, her passion, her gift.
Francine will pass away in the coming weeks, maybe sooner. I know how devastating this is for those of you who know and love her. She undoubtedly loves you back. And I am so sorry, but we cannot accept visitors at this time. Calls and texts also take too much energy. If you’d like to share something with her, you can send it in one of the following ways. (If you feel like you absolutely need to call or video call, let me know, and I’ll see if we can arrange; however, a recorded video or audio message might be an easier approach.)
-Website for public notes, messages, stories, videos, eulogies, etc: francine.jdavis.online
(if this is not yet operational, check back soon)
-Email: FrancineNDavis@gmail.com
-Mail: 11337 SW 85th Lane, Miami, FL 33173 (real physical letters are nice, but mail might be a bit too slow)
Thank you for your love and support. There’s nothing we need in this moment. It’s very hard to say goodbye, but it’s a blessing to be by her side and to help care for her in this transition out.
Life can be filled with a lot of pain and suffering. It’s also a beautiful gift. So keep celebrating, keep laughing, and don’t sweat the small things.
I recently asked my mother what dying is like. Her response: “surreal.”
Indeed, so surreal,
Jonathan