All It Takes Is A Little Love

There is a great deal of talk these days as to what makes a real man. Being a female I cannot totally understand this hypothetical question because I am hormonally and physically different from my brothers. I can only assert my point of view as it relates to the interactions between men and women. There are many different ideas as to what constitutes a real man with most of them being influenced by cultures and religious beliefs. In truth there is no one definitive way of defining a so called real man.

The first man that I really knew was my father but my thoughts about him are those of an eight year old child. When he died my vision of him was frozen forever in a time before I had the maturity to consider both his foibles and strengths. What I do know is that he loved me and my brothers and my mother as evidenced in big and small actions. The night that he spent hours and many gallons of gasoline attempting to find an open store with a Big Chief tablet that I needed for school the following day is as good a reason for me to view him as a thoughtful and understanding person. He saw how disturbed I was at the thought of showing up at school without the supplies that I was supposed to have and so he moved mountains to make sure that my needs were addressed in a long ago time when stores closed in the afternoon. When I awoke to find a Big Chief tablet on my dresser my admiration for him was cemented. For me he was the man!

I grew up with many male cousins and I had seven uncles who were different in so many ways. Some of them went hunting and fishing and carried themselves with the kind of confidence that is associated with cowboys and athletes. Others were quiet and pensive with hearts made of gold. 

I especially liked my Uncle Jack who was a tall lanky man who delivered mail for a job and enjoyed watching westerns for fun. He laughed and joked and called everyone “honey.” He was a good man who guided my mother in the weeks after my father’s death. He seemed to me to be the kind of man that everyone needs from time to time, someone to trust and to feel comfortable around. 

My Uncle Willie was like having Santa Claus in the family. He was quiet and sweet but always wise. He was the man who noticed things and understood when someone needed help. He gave of his time and his love without fanfare, so silently that most people may not have even noticed that he was around. He was like Superman or Batman seeming to be quite ordinary until trouble came when he always showed up to be a hero who shunned any kind of notice. He demonstrated the importance of being a man who cares for his family and his community without personal expectations. He did what he did because it was right.

Of course their was my Grandpa Little, a man straddling the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and adjusting to changes just as he knew needed to be done. He was a handsome man with enormous hands that tapered just enough to make them artistic in the way he built things. He had lost all but a ring of his hair by the time I knew him so he protected his head from the burning rays of the sun with a fedora in winter and straw hat in the summer. He smoked a pipe and the sweet aroma of tobacco followed him everywhere. He read voraciously and in turn spread the word about what he had learned. His life had been difficult and yet he was never bitter, instead he celebrated progress for all of humankind. He was a teacher of how to survive in a world that can sometimes be cruel and still find hope and joy in each day.

My husband is the epitome of sweetness. He almost innocently seems to love anyone that he meets without even a hint of judgmental bias. He is generous with his time and his treasures, wanting very little for himself including power and great wealth. He finds fulfillment in being a steadying force much like my Uncle Willie always was. He is brilliant like my father and an avid reader and conveyor of information like my grandfather. He laughs and jokes and takes care of situations like my Uncle Jack. To me he is the personification of a real man, someone who is never boastful, never rude, never prone to judging with prejudice. 

I believe that just as we women differ from one to another there is no definitive definition of what a real man is. I only seems to have an idea of what isn’t a real man. A real man values people and respects women. He is not undone by a woman who achieves greatness. He encourage everyones to be the best of whomever they choose to be. He does not find joy in boasting or insulting

So many men attempt to characterize the kind of man that they believe to be the epitome of that genre and miss the mark. Muscles are nice for the health of a man but they do not make a man. A real man is not superficial, nor does he grow stronger by putting others down. A truly good man does not lie or cheat or bully. The measure of a man cannot be determined by wealth or power, or sexual preference. A real man loves generously, encourages those around him and walks in a sacred kind of partnership with the earth and all of its people. Every man is imperfect just as each of of us are but he strives to quietly overcome his flaws with wisdom and grace. 

Things have not gone well for Donald Trump in the last week or so. He seems to be like Alexander in the book about boy a who had everything go wrong. So it has been for Donald and he is having a very difficult time owning up to his mistakes that have made everything seem so bad. 

First there is the reflection pool that admittedly might have needed a bit of cleaning. Trump’s instinct to do something to make it better was not in itself a bad idea but he is not an expert in such things even if he thinks he is and he would have done well to seek the advice of those who regularly deal with such things. Instead he turned to a swimming pool builder who has given him many monetary contributions. The problems is that there is a big difference between a swimming pool with systems that circulate chlorinated water versus a shallow pond whose water comes from a river and is mostly stagnant. 

There probably is a better way of keeping such a body of water a bit cleaner but painting the floor of the pond was not the answer that Donald hoped it would be. While it looked fairly nice initially it did not take long for the algae to come back just as it has always seemed to do only maybe a bit worse than usual. Sadly Donald once again insisted on a quick fix without a study of what might actually work and he turned to hydrogen peroxide as a way to kill the algae. Little did he know that it would also impact the bonding of the paint and soon chips were floating on the surface along with the algae which seemed not to respond to the chemicals as well as hoped. 

This was the moment that Donald might have admitted that he had made a hasty mistake but such confessions are anathema to him. Instead he made up a tale of vandals slashing the blue epoxy so that it separated from the bottom of the pond and floated to the top. It did not matter that there was no evidence of such a thing happening. The only thing that mattered in his mind was saving face when he was actually making things worse. Therein lies the biggest problem with the man. He would rather lie and blame his shortcomings on someone else than ever admitting a mistake.

The reflection pool is a kind of analogy of why Donald’s presidency is looking like a resounding failure. He breaks things first without studying what might actually be wrong if anything at all. His actions have over and over again ended up costing the American taxpayers more than they should have. He decided that we did not need people combating an insect that was not in the United States and now is spending many times more than the cost of prevention to rid the nation of the screw worm. 

So too it has been with the war on Iran. Without consulting Congress or studying all of the issues Donald assumed that he would be able to bring Iran to its knees in the matter of a few days or weeks. He has learned that his plan is not working as well as he thought. Now he is peddling the idea that his memorandum of understanding is a good deal for the United States when the truth says things differently. 

Donald’s terrible horrible days exist mostly because he has surrounded himself with spineless men and women who fear crossing him even when they suspect that there are flaws in his thinking. He sees himself as the ultimate expert in virtually everything when nobody has ever been able to be the best in all things. Good leaders always rely on the advice of other experts. Thinking that one person has all the answers is a dangerous assumption that has landed Donald in so much trouble right now. 

Everything he touches is falling apart just like that reflection pond. We have dead grass on the White House lawn. The cost of gasoline is absurd and won’t go down anytime soon. Groceries are becoming more and more difficult to afford for most Americans and recent college graduates are struggling to find jobs. Meanwhile Donald is showing off his multi-million dollar plane that will go with him when he leaves office even though our taxes were used to refit it. He is tone deaf to the needs and concerns of the average American. His only focus is on making himself and the members of his family wealthier than they have ever before been.

The man’s health and his mind are obviously fading and he’s trying so hard to cover up the fear that must be racing through his mind. As the problems pile up Donald is in for many more terrible, horrible, no good very bad days. It’s time for his family and the Republicans to get help for the man before he destroys our nation any more. When Donald has a terrible, horrible, no good very bad day so too do we all.

We needed a ride from Brunswick to Portland where we would meet with the rest of the family for a celebratory meal after the graduation of our granddaughter. We contacted Uber for the short drive but my granddaughter worried that we would not get a response. It seems that few Uber drivers hang around in Brunswick because they receive few calls there. Happily a man named Luke agreed to deliver us but noted that he first had to drop off another customer. 

We sat at the pick up stop for a long time. So long that we began to wonder if our granddaughter had been right and that we would be left stranded when Luke never came. Just when we were about ready to give up his red car pulled up and stopped in front of us. He was dressed in a suit looking much like a chauffeur. He welcomed us and opened the car doors for us. He was very polite and professional. We soon learned that Luke was from the Congo in Africa. He was eager to tell us the story of how he came to live and work in Portland, Maine and we were happy to listen to his saga. 

Luke had worked in various positions for the government of Congo. He was well spoken and intelligent as evidenced by his perfect English and use of an extraordinary vocabulary. He was doing well in Congo when his daughter was born with a liver disease that threatened her life. The doctors told him that unless she received the kind of care that was unavailable where he lived she would die within five months. 

Luke and his wife were proud people but they realized that they were unable to determine what to do on their own. They turned to social media to share their story and to hopefully learn where and how they must travel to save their daughter’s life. They set up a Go Fund  Me site and soon were bombarded with suggestions and funds. Ultimately they were invited to Nebraska in the United States by a doctor who thought he might be able to help their daughter. Using the money they had and Luke’s influence with the government of Congo they quickly got passports and visas that would allow them to journey to Nebraska. 

Once in Nebraska their daughter was hospitalized for multiple tests. Weeks passed and nothing much had been done for her. The clock was ticking on her life and their funds were all but gone. Luke decided it was time to reach out to anyone on social media who might have a better idea for making his daughter well. Miraculously a physician in Portland Maine contacted him and invited Luke and his family to travel to yet another hopeful place. The doctor even provided the funding for their journey and offered a place where they might stay when they arrived in Maine. Virtually penniless and devoid of answers about their daughter the family was on the move once again with a wing and prayer. 

The doctor in Maine reaccessed the infant and quickly began a treatment that worked. Luke’s daughter did not die. In fact she is now twelve years old and thriving. Luke was so impressed with the kindness of the people in Portland, Maine that he decided to attempt to stay there and become a citizen. With the help of countless people his wish came true. The family set down roots and have lived in Portland, Maine for twelve years. 

Luke became a minister by trade with a sideline job of being an Uber driver. He and his wife had a son who was born in America and is a bonafide citizen. He admitted that he was probably considered to be poor by many of his fellow Americans but he laughed at the idea noting that being poor in Africa is a whole different level of want. He felt blessed by God and feels a deep regard for the United States even as he admits to problems that our nation is still struggling to address. 

Luke is grateful to the people of Portland. He sees himself as a Mainer. He is not without detractors who do not want him or his family in the United States. He gets his share of racist behaviors because he is Black and an immigrant but he focuses on the generosity that  overwhelms the ugly aspects of our nation. He is an optimist with a strong belief that God has greatly blessed his family. He loves the people of Portland and sees himself as a bonafide Mainer. He would not want to be anywhere else in the world.

The ride with Luke was almost spiritual. He was an angel who happened to be around to take us where we needed to go and along the way he inspired us with his good will and his amazing story. We stepped from his car enriched in spirit and I know that I will never forget him. 

I was a timid child, quiet and obedient at all times. I had a naive way of viewing the world. Because my mother was so loving and supportive I tended to assume that everyone else was that way as well. Somehow I got through my childhood without being bullied or treated badly by either my peers or any adults. My world was rather protective and idyllic and made for a lovely way to grow into an adult save for the fact that I was not totally prepared for the realities of life. Somehow I knew in my heart that I had to venture out of my bubble and face the world as it really is so I shunned offers to attend private religious universities in favor of a large public university in my hometown. I eagerly applied for admission to the University of Houston because I believed that being there would better prepare me for the adult world that lay ahead.

The first thing that I realized was that with thousands of students there I would have to work hard not become just the number that served as my identification. I saw the anonymity of a large university as a way for me to reinvent myself as someone willing to be outspoken rather than a shadow lurking in fear that I might say or do the wrong things. I overcame my reluctance to raise my hand in class and to make appointments with professors so that they would know who I was. Mostly I began to write essays that honestly voiced my opinions, not just the ones that I believed would keep me out of the limelight or trouble. 

It was a very freeing experience that allowed me to participate in discussions and debates. I met people from far away states with customs so unlike my own. I heard truths that had never before been part of my knowledge. I listened to Mohammed Ali speak about the war in Vietnam in the Cougar Den. I expanded my confidence bit by bit often with the help of professors who saw potential in me that I never realized was there. My worldview grew exponentially in ways that I might not have otherwise imagined. 

I suppose that the same kind of things might have happened at any university that I chose but I needed to be among strangers rather than old friends who were going together to universities that recruited Catholic school girls. I wanted to evolve without anyone noticing that I was changing. Even though I did have friends at the University of Houston I rarely encountered any of them. Every class was filled with new faces and new possibilities for becoming confident in myself. 

I have to admit that the maturing process was not always smooth going but even in difficult situations I learned that I was capable of asserting myself and setting things right. All the while the world of ideas was feeding my appetite for knowledge that had been heretofore unknown to me. I voraciously read the books and articles and essays that the professors assigned. I learned the intricacies of art, language, literature, psychology, geography, history, politics, mathematics and even physical activities. I went to street dances and athletic events and learned about the wider world from everyone that I met.

Along the way there were mentors who realized my potential and encouraged me to be a lifelong learner. They helped me to understand my strengths and my weaknesses and how to use my talents in ways that had a positive affect on society. I still think of them and the impact they had on me. 

To this day I prefer to be an observer more than an activist but I know that sometimes I must step forward and I have the tools of speech and logic and information to state my case. Those are the skills that I took away from my time at the University of Houston. There I more closely became a citizen of the world just as my high school English teacher had encouraged me to be.

I have never looked back nor wished that I had gone somewhere else. I don’t know of another university that would have had as much impact on me as the one that I chose. The key to my success at the University of Houston lay in the quality and dedication of the professors who one by one offered me a personalization of my educational plan. They were open and ready for my questions and my musings. They managed to know that I was way more than that number that I used on all of my papers and tests. They were dedicated men and women who guided me into my life as an adult. 

Of course there were other experiences that would shape me later. Being responsible for the health of my mother increased my belief in myself. Meeting a young man who shared my hopes and dreams and thoughts boosted my assessment of myself. Successfully becoming more and more independent showed me that I was ready for whatever came my way. 

The day came when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I liked the person that I saw. That was a glorious moment that I have never forgotten. it seems that from that day forward I had no more qualms about being myself, a woman willing to keep expanding my worldviews. From the University of Houston I learned that knowledge really is power and I have never stopped reaching for more.

It always amazed me that my mother was as optimistic as she was. She had every right to be dreary and anxious but that only happened when she avoided the medications for her bipolar disorder. Most of the time she was the sunshine even on a cloudy day. She often ended each day when my brothers and I were still children by tucking us into our beds and reminding us how lucky we were. She was one of those people operating on a low income who gave an amazing percent of her funds to those who were less fortunate. Her smile was worth a million dollars and she flashed it wherever she went. People who took the time to know her loved her, even clerks in stores. I never completely understood how she managed to find the good in every situation or how she found such joy in simple things like stopping for a scoop of ice cream. 

When Kermit the Frog from Sesame Street first sang his classic “Rainbow Connection” my mother fell in love with the tune. It represented her outlook on life which included dealing with dark and difficult times always followed by incredible hope and gratitude for however much good came her way. She would tear up and smile like an innocent child whenever she heard the strains of that tune. Those were happy tears in which she emotionally celebrated all of the goodness that she saw in the world. 

Through my mother I have become attached to “Rainbow Connection.” I purchased a Hallmark Christmas ornament that features Kermit singing his now famous song. Each year when I hang it on my tree. I think of my mother and smile with some happy tears welling in my eyes. Somehow her allegiance to finding the best in even the worst situations reminds me to push my own tendencies toward pessimism away. She showed me how to deal with my problems by finding the wonder in the most ordinary moments. Now whenever I see a rainbow I find myself thinking that it is my mother’s way of reminding me not to dwell too long on the difficulties that I may be facing. 

This is admittedly a  very difficult moment in time for me. I worry constantly about the health of my beloved country, the United States of America. On some days I become so engrossed in the negativity of our president that I forget to take my mother’s lead and look for the progress that is slowly moving to set things right. Then I see a photo from my son-in-law of  a brilliant rainbow stretching across the sky on a rainy day and I feel as though it is the voice of my mother assuring me that this too will pass. I see her sweet smile and I hear her reminding me to look for the good for it will surely outdo the bad. 

I think of how much easier my life has been than my mother’s simply because she sacrificed so much for me and my brothers. I realize what I learned from her including becoming the soup and bean queen in my extended family. She taught me how to stretch a dime by making the most of every drop of food that I bring into my home. She showed me that it is possible to endure even the most unbelievable tragedies with dogged determination and always unrelenting appreciation for whatever I have.

There is great irony in the story of my mother’s life. By many measures hers would have been a dreary tale. She was the youngest of eight children who wore hand me down clothing and shoes. She endured the taunts of other children for being from an immigrant family but she nonetheless soared in school where her teachers noted her many abilities. She learned how to sew her own clothing so that she was always stylish. She watched musical movies and learned how to dance without formal lessons. She worked to pay for classes that gave her secretarial skills that afforded better jobs than she might otherwise have had. She married young and ended up in the middle class with her engineer husband and three children only lose that status when he died when she was only thirty. She would struggle financially for the rest of her life but somehow managed to buy and pay for homes twice and to ultimately earn a college degree. 

Just when my mother seemed to be on the brink of an easier time of life she was ravaged by a mental illness that stalked her for the remainder of her life. She had periods of health and periods of extreme illness but kept her job at the University of Texas Health Science Center until she retired. She was so loved by her co-workers that they gave her a rousing send off unlike anything I have ever before or since witnessed. When she died of lung cancer in her early eighties the church was filled with family and friends who spoke of the many times that she brought joy to them when they were feeling down. She was indeed the rainbow connection for many souls whose lives she had made brighter and happier. 

I look for the rainbows in life now because they remind me of to look for the joy even in the darkest of time. My mother knew so well how to do that and I suspect that she would want me to be a lover and dreamer just as she was.