Classroom teachers guide students through academic content and so much more. Educators shape who we become. Their lessons can have impact beyond the classroom and can last a lifetime, and with particularly special educators, even longer.

Dennis M. Pipkin Sr. is a military veteran turned cook. The Philadelphia native currently lives in St. George, Kansas. He still has family in the Philadelphia area—some related by blood and some connected through a special teacher.

He first met Mrs. Federman, EDU ’66, ‘72, in his youth. In his first year at John Wanamaker Junior High School, then located at 12^th and Cecil B. Moore Avenues in North Philadelphia, she was his homeroom teacher.

“As a teenager, I was one of her headaches,” Pipkin shares, laughing. “I consider myself one of her knuckleheads. But she kept me on track.”

Then, when he moved on to high school, he was surprised to walk into a classroom and find Mrs. Federman once again.

“When I walked in the door, she said ‘Oh my God! You thought you got away, but I found you!’”

Pipkin graduated from Thomas A. Edison High School in 1973. As it turns out, Federman missed his graduation—held at Temple University’s McGonigle Hall—because she was in the hospital preparing to welcome her son.

After high school, he had a military career that spanned more than 25 years.

Joining the U.S. Army was a decision that concerned Federman. They stayed in touch throughout his service, even though they went years without seeing each other. Pipkin sent her postcards and called her from deployments, unable to reveal details, but always reassuring her that he was safe. She’d worry if too much time passed without an update.

“No matter what you hear on the news, I’m okay,” he told her.

“She wasn’t just grilling me to teach me,” Pipkin explains. “She was grilling me to show me. And whatever she told me, I was gonna listen. It stuck with me because she was always there to let me know that things aren’t always what they seem.”

Years later, while on a visit home during leave, Pipkin said he returned to the high school with his brothers, who she also taught, to surprise Mrs. Federman with a visit. He entered the building, got permission from the office staff, and went to her classroom, sitting with his brothers in the back of the room.

“Mrs. F. walks in,” he recalls, “puts her bag down, writes something on the board. She squints her eyes and sees us and screams ‘Oh my God! All three of you at the same time!?’”

From there, the lesson plans for the day were disregarded. She enjoyed the reunion, allowing her new students to ask questions and joking that she was jealous of sharing her visit from Pipkin with the rest of the class.

“She put her hands on her hip,” he remembers with a warm smile. “She said ‘I thought you came to visit me, but you talked with my students the whole time!’ There was no curriculum going on, everything was about them Pipkin boys in the back of the classroom! That was the relationship we had.”

He explains visiting Mrs. Federman was always one of his stops when he came home. “Before I visited family and friends, I’d contact Mrs. Federman. There were always two ladies in my life—my mom and her.”

She started off as his teacher, then became a mentor and ultimately a friend.

“I miss that,” Pipkin says solemnly. “I miss her.” After retiring from the military, Pipkin continued with federal service, retired again and, in his late 60s, decided to pursue a passion and attend culinary school. He is now a chef at a dependent care center at Fort Riley in Kansas.

Federman was there to witness it all. They spoke by phone regularly and shared many laughs.

“I realized years ago she considered me an adult when she tried to get me to call her by her first name, Freddi. I told her, ‘But you’ve been Mrs. Federman my whole life!’”

Pipkin notes he can’t pinpoint when their relationship changed, as relationships grow gradually.

“I don’t know when I grew up to become equal to her, but somewhere along the line, she considered me as equal.”

But he could not bring himself to address her by her first name, though he cared for her greatly.

With such a special relationship, it was only natural that the affection carried over to other members of Federman’s family. Pipkin, by now, also enjoyed talking with Federman’s husband, Norm, once a gym teacher at Germantown High School, and with their daughter Elisa, a school psychologist in Bucks County, along with Elisa’s brothers Rick and Matt, who work in the entertainment industry and live in California.

“I would watch programs to see her sons’ names on the screen and felt so proud knowing I was connected to them,” Pipkin shares.

Later in life, roles sometimes reverse. The ones once guided by a teacher or parent become the ones offering care and advice.

This was also the case as Federman and her husband aged. In phone conversations, Pipkin says he encouraged Federman to accept more help from her family. It was during one of those tough conversations where Pipkin surprised himself by calling her Freddi.

“It slipped out,” he said. “‘Freddi,’ I said, ‘It’s time for you to move in with your daughter. You can’t take care of Norm and yourself alone.’”

She did.

As her health declined, Pipkin says he called weekly. He spoke with Freddi, but also Norm and Elisa. He remembers Norm telling him that he was the only one to get her to talk, to laugh, to forget the pain.

Then, Elisa called him.

“She said, ‘Mom passed.’ And I said, ‘But I just talked to her!’ The intent was to hold on to my friend as long as I could.”

He realized he didn’t have to let go.

Pipkin continued calling to check in on Norm and chat with Elisa, even after Freddi’s passing.

“I told Norm, if I don’t stay in touch with you, when Mrs. Federman sees me, she’s gonna have my blood!”

So they stayed in touch. Same with Elisa, even after Norm’s passing about a year and a half after Freddi.

Pipkin remembers saying to Elisa, “I don’t think your parents would mind if you adopted me as your older brother. You can call me anytime. I’mma be here as long as you need me.”

She did call Pipkin. And when he got that next phone call, he said he answered with a “Hey, little sister!”

Decades after that "knucklehead" walked into his junior high homeroom, Mrs. Federman’s legacy lives on. It started simply. Perhaps begrudgingly at first. But he says he is grateful he let Mrs. Federman in.

“It may be one or two things that’s gonna stick with you for the rest of your life,” he said. “All you gotta do is listen.”

---

Writer’s Note:

Freddi Federman was a family friend. She and my aunt, Suzanne Kovler (nee Greenberg), EDU ’66, met in high school and later attended Temple University together to study education. They remained lifelong friends. Through their friendship, I met Freddi’s daughter, Elisa, many years ago. While on a walk together recently, Elisa shared the story of the former student who continues to reach out to her because of the impact her mom had on his life. It’s an honor to share Dennis’ story and to highlight the lasting web of relationships great educators create.