All It Takes Is A Little Love

“Life is about using the whole box of crayons” Author Unknown

I have a dim but pleasant memory of visiting a nice lady who lived next door to my family when I was about four or five years old. She was an artist and her home was filled with modern furniture unlike anything I had ever before seen. Some of her paintings festooned the walls and they were magnificent creations of color and strange forms. I would later think of her when I watched the movie Auntie Mame and saw the avant-garde furnishings and lifestyle of the main character. That is how I still think of the lady who lived next door, a free spirit with a creative mind who was kind to children.

I vaguely remember coloring with her and feeling so calm in her presence. My mother claimed that the lady was quite impressed with my shading and ability to control the crayon rather than just scribbling all over the page like most children my age. I have to take my mother’s word for truth because I don’t remember the details of my visits with the neighbor other than being in awe of how different her interior decorating was from the more traditional settings that I had always seen. 

I grew up with a fondness of art and one of my most audacious dreams as a child was to get one of those huge boxes of crayons that seemingly had every shade of tints that I had ever seen. The biggest box I ever owned was the one that was just a step above the smallest offering with two rows of crayons rather than only one row representing the colors of the rainbow. I took extra care of my crayons keeping them neatly aligned in the box so I was horrified when I one day took an art class and the instructor insisted that I tear off the paper around the waxy sticks and break them into smaller pieces that would allow me to better shade my compositions. I enjoyed having my crayons lined up in glorious rainbows without any flaws.

One of my brothers hated to color so his answer to a task that he found tedious was to just grab a brown crayon and scribble all over the paper. Since the teachers knew that our father had died they tied his habit to depression and called my mother in for a conference. They suggested that my brother might need some counseling and used his brown artwork as proof of his sadness. When my mother suggested that it might be a good idea to first find out from him why he always submitted brown scribbles, they immediately called him into the meeting. When asked why he always chose brown and then only scribbled with it he insisted that he hated coloring and just wanted to get the project over with as quickly as possible. His only sadness was in being required to perform a task that was odious to him. With a bit of pressure from the teacher and the counselor he finally agreed to choose more cheerful colors if that was what they wanted. 

I laugh about how different my brother and I have always been and I marvel at my mother’s patience in allowing us to follow our own dreams. I think she understood quite well that the two of us were destined for differing ways of engaging with life. His would be a world of numbers and analytical tasks and mine would revolve around doing my utmost to make learning feel magical. I used lots of colors in my words and in the environment that I created for my students. I understood that those young people who looked at me with anticipation represented all of the colors that the world has ever conceived. Not two were exactly alike. I had my giant box of colors in the many personalities, dreams, and abilities of the thousands of young people who came to my classroom. I suppose that I wanted them to remember my lessons the way I remember my neighbor’s colorful and exciting home where I was felt so comfortable and understood. 

We can complain about diversity as though it is something that diminishes us but that would be so wrong. The bigger the box of crayons, the more possibilities there are for creating a wondrous work of art. So it is with people. All of the many colors and shades of their personalities and cultures and ideas are beautiful just like a giant box of crayons. The artistry of the world is incredible with no one place or type of person being more pleasing than the others. We need everyone just as they are. Diversity moves our world forward and creates a collage that brightens the world rather than diminishing it. 

I think of how that giant box of crayons always made me dream of possibilities and now I see that all of those different shades represent the variety of the world. The lady next door introduced me to a way of living that I had never before seen and I still remember it because it was so beautiful. That is how I see the world today. The many shades of our world enliven our planet and make it a wonderful place to be. 

The world is filled with ironies, collisions of the past, present and future that sometimes happen in ways that seem to be almost spiritual. So it was with me last week. It all began when I read an article that featured the author’s choices of the most authentic historical films. I wrote down the titles on a small tablet where I keep notes of ideas that I want to pursue and one by one my husband and I began watching the movies each evening. 

We began with Cromwell and moved through old flicks like the nineteen fifties era rendition of Napoleon. We both agreed that the author of the article that I had read had made excellent choices in recommending movies that are incredibly representative of the times that they purport to examine. Each film was indeed exceptional so we stuck with our plan to view everything on the list one by one. Finally we reached the movie, Selma.

The very mention of Selma, Alabama conjures intense emotions in me. I was glued to the nightly news each evening during my high school years. I saw the efforts of the civil rights movement in the south where I lived. I cringed at the stories about Black citizens being denied entry into schools, restaurants, bathrooms and other public spaces. Even as a child of seven or eight years I had understood how wrong it was to make the Black people in my city sit at the back of the bus that my mother and I took on our ventures to downtown Houston. I questioned the signs on water fountains and bathrooms that segregated Blacks from the rest of us. It ruffled my sense of fairness and decency to see such things and as I grew older my resolve to help make things more just only became stronger. 

In nineteen sixty five I was a junior in high school and not yet seventeen years old but I followed the nightly news regarding the civil rights efforts with hopeful interest. Thus I saw with dismay what happened in Selma, Alabama on the William Pettit Bridge one Sunday when Black citizens attempted a peaceful protest march to shine a light on the flagrant attempts to keep them from being able to vote. I watched the brutality of the state troopers who attacked with snarling dogs, officers on horseback and batons that battered the heads of the people. I was in tears then and still become emotional when I think of that dreadful day. 

Of course Selma represented a turning point in the efforts to secure the right to vote for all people who are citizens of the United States. It forced President Lyndon B Johnson to respond to the issue with legislation that banned attempts to keep Black citizens off of the rolls. The old tropes of making Blacks answer ridiculous questions that insured that they would be turned down when the attempted to register were to be no more. 

Fast forward many years later to 2010 when I was a mathematics teacher in the middle age of my life teaching at a charter school where many young Black and Hispanic students worked hard to enrich themselves with an education that would lead to opportunities to attend college. At the end of each school year the freshman class embarked on a journey to some of the key Civil Rights sites including Selma, Alabama. I was eager to volunteer to be one of the chaperones because I wanted to see the places that had been so impactful in the story of our national tussle with justice for all. To me it was a pilgrimage. So I warned my students that I might become especially emotional in Selma and spoke of the feelings of my youth when I was only slightly older than they were.

The trip itself was like no other journey I have ever taken. Each place that we visited tugged at my memories but it was in Selma that I truly felt a sense of reliving history. We stopped first at the church where many of the plans for the march to Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, had begun back in nineteen sixty-five. As we walked down the sidewalk heading for the bridge we were followed by law officers in cars. Many of the Black students huddled around me quietly wondering if the people in the town were concerned by our presence. We were indeed a rather large group and must have seemed a bit out of place. 

Soon the William Pettit Bridge loomed before us just as it was in nineteen sixty-five. We could not see the other side because the road was curved into a kind of hill. It was only when we reached the peak that we were able to see what lay ahead. In our downward descent my emotions overtook me. I felt my heart racing and breathing became more difficult. Tears of remembrance welled in my eyes but I made no sound. I kept my feelings in check much as I always tend to do when I am with my students. 

Once we reached an open field where we gathered to get on the bus that would take us to Montgomery one of the students approached me and asked, “Are you okay, Mama B?” My lips quivered as I shook my head up and down and then he gave me a big bear hug as though he understood what we both were feeling in that moment. 

In 2020, in the midst of the pandemic George Floyd was murdered in Minnesota. Suddenly I received a message from the young man who had understood me so well in Selma. His request for me was simple. He asked me to be a voice for him and for his people. He understood that the cause of justice for our Black citizens was still in jeopardy. That is when I began to change the tenor of many of my blogs. They were no longer just happy pieces that made people smile. I lost many readers because of my defense of George Floyd and those who protested his death. 

Now in 2026, we have a president and a Congress and a Supreme Court that seems intent on taking our nation back to a time that was not great at all. They allow gerrymandering to go wild, eliminating districts that gave Blacks an opportunity to have representation. Only last week the majority of the court voted to restrict one of the key premises of the Voting Rights Act by noting that it was unconstitutional to create districts that assured Black citizens with representation. It was in my mind the most egregious setback in justice in the last one hundred years. In the state of Louisiana where one third of the citizens are Black the court ruled that districts aimed at giving them representation are unConstitutional. 

So here I was watching Selma only days after the Supreme Court ruling and my emotions ran free. I was sobbing not just in remembering what happened sixty years ago but in knowing that the efforts of so many brave souls are being undone one by one. I cried not just about the past but about the future of our nation. I felt a deep sadness in realizing that the efforts of so many brave souls are slowly being undone as lawmakers draw ridiculous lines to create Congressional districts that water down or outright eliminate the voices of individuals and groups who still long to be heard. Why can’t we get it right?

What would you do today to make yourself happy? I know what I chose and what surprised me and made me even happier than I expected to be.

It was the weekend and I woke up quite early. In spite of efforts to sleep a bit late my body said that it was wide awake so I rolled out of the bed and headed to my great room. First I made my morning tea. While it was steeping I opened all of the blinds even though it was still dark outside. Not a soul seemed to be joining me in the early hours of the day but I was content to simply enjoy the silence and wait to see the first hints of sunlight.

I settled into my recliner and did some reading followed by morning puzzle time. I was moving through my routines so fast that it was still not yet daylight so I sipped on my tea and took my daily pills while scanning through messages on Facebook. Suddenly as I scrolled through posts I saw a short video of Barack Obama and Zohran Mamdani reading a book and singing songs with children at a daycare center in New York City. They were having so much fun and so were the kids that the smile on my face grew wider and wider until I chuckled out loud with delight watching the two good men spreading joy to utterly delightful children. It was a sight that set a positive tone for the rest of my day. 

I had planned to clean bathrooms and my kitchen, which is hardly a fun thing to do, but I was in such a positive mood that I was literally whistling while I worked. Somehow the vision of those youngsters so innocently singing The Wheels On the Bus stayed with me throughout the day. Somehow everything seemed easier and of no concern because I had felt the joy in that room and saw that the two men had felt it as well. 

Isn’t it amazing how one wonderful image can affect ones mood for an entire day? I found myself zipping through my chores and feeling gratitude for my home that was becoming squeaky clean. I felt like one of those seven dwarfs coming home form work at the mines but still smiling with all of my might. 

Before the day dawned one of my daughters had sent the same video to me and we both agreed that it was such a lovely thing to see given that there is so much anger and turmoil in the world. Sometimes it is the children who teach us how to be happy. Their joy is infectious and it is almost impossible not to join in their celebratory spirit. 

I had dreaded having to clean countertops and toilets and floors in a routine that comes around over and over again. Instead my spirits were so bright that I would have tackled any task with a silly smile planted on my face. It is the children who remind us how to love and celebrate our innocence. As Franklin Delano Roosevelt once said, “the youth of today are the sole investment for tomorrow.” The time and love that we provide them will pay beautiful dividends in the future. We don’t have to spend lots of money to let them know that they are important to us. Sometimes just singing and laughing with them is the only message that they need to know that everything is going to be alright. 

I love adults who are able to have fun with children without focusing attention on themselves. Children don’t want or need to hear adult problems. There will be time enough when they are older to become more serious. Kindness and joy is what they need. They know who is truly interested in their well being and who is just going through the motions of appearing to care what happens to them.

I recently began teaching math to a delightfully clever little boy. He is a joy filled little soul with a tiny spark of impishness. I know that our lessons can never be all business. He has to have time to tell me about the books that he is reading or that he is planning a podcast for his friends. I take his earnestness seriously and encourage him to keep finding ways to widen his world with reading and creating. The math comes far more easily when he knows that I like him and that it will be okay if he makes a mistake here and there. 

Children are the most important people on our planet. Our goal should always be to make certain that they are safe from harm. We can’t stop every tragedy but we should be circumspect in doing things that might make them collateral damage from our mistakes. We should strive to shield them from war and famine and hate. We are their protectors and that is one of the most important jobs that we may do. When I see two good men sending the children a message that they are safe I am enchanted. There is nothing more worthwhile. 

I had a happy day that went all the way until I read that children were killed in a family dispute. I have harsh words for those who would dare to harm little ones for any reason. I cry at the thought of their lives being so damaged because some adult became angry and decided to aim that anger at little ones who should instead have been sheltered and loved. 

I hope I see happier times on the horizon, not so much for me but for the children. They don’t need to endure our pettiness or our anger. We should always be laughing and singing and celebrating life in their presence. We owe to them to find joy in being with them. Who knows, maybe we might even carry such happiness over to all of our days.

My mother was unique to say the least. She often criticized the idea of having a monarch in the modern world while also expressing her unmitigated admiration for Queen Elizabeth. She felt a kind of kinship with the Queen even as their lives could not have been more different. About the only thing that they had in common was age and appearance. Mama used to boast that with a good makeup artist, hair dresser and wardrobe she might be seen as a clone of Her Majesty. In truth the two ladies did resemble each other in an interesting way. 

My mother appreciated Queen Elizabeth’s manners and the regal way in which she presented herself. Mama was also a stickler for proper etiquette and often used the queen as an example to follow. She commented on the comportment of the queen and instructed me to learn from the gracious lady. She would muse about how lovely it would be to meet Elizabeth as an equal as though the only difference between herself and the queen was a title. She would laugh and remark that the one reservation she might have in such a circumstance would be the idea of bowing to the royal personage. She did not think that she would want to ever do such a thing because of her adamant belief that everybody is equally worthy of the same levle of respect. 

Mama often noted that Queen Elizabeth’s first born child, Charles, would one day be king. She delighted in the fact that both she and the queen welcomed their eldest children at around the same time. Somehow this made her affection for Elizabeth become ever more deep. She raised me with rules and manners that she hoped would make me as refined as any royal personage while always asserting that being a citizen of the United States gave me the great gift of knowing that we are all created equal. 

I found myself thinking of my mom’s adulation of Queen Elizabeth when her son King Charles came to visit the United States.  I am quite certain that my mother would have enjoyed his good manners and diplomacy especially when he praised the nation that the United States had become since the revolution of two hundred fifty years ago when our Founding Fathers broke from the bondage of a king. She would have been delighted to hear him urging Congress to keep the ideals outlined in the Magna Carta and later in our Declaration of Independence and Constitution. 

As a child of immigrants from Eastern Europe my mother always appreciated the freedoms that the United States offered to the tired, the poor and the huddled masses. Her family benefited greatly from the hope and refuge that our nation afforded them. She often spoke of her father’s insistence that being in America was a great treasure that she and her siblings must always appreciate. She noted that even when she and her family were insulted and spurned as ‘foreigners” her father would tell her to hold her head high as he insisted, “Here you are as worthy as kings and queens.”   

I had my doubts about King Charles coming to visit in such tumultuous times but he rose to the occasion masterfully. I enjoyed watching him warm to the children in Harlem who showed him the gardens they had grown and the animals they had raised. I witnessed his sincerity at the site of 9/11 and Arlington Cemetery. I chuckled at his humor and felt that I saw a man who sincerely understands and appreciates the long friendship that Great Britain and the United States of America have shared. I found myself thinking about George Washington and the brave souls who fought for independence. I am certain they would have approved of the courtesy and friendship and continuing challenges that King Charles noted in his speech to Congress. 

We presently have much to do to realign ourselves to the ideals that that have marked the forward march of our nation. King Charles reminded us of what will be most important as we move into the future. It will be up to us to be a welcoming nation and one that aligns itself with long time allies in a mutual preservation of the freedoms that our ancestors envisioned. The wealth of our nation lies in its population of many backgrounds and cultures. Ours is a land of beautiful wonders that we must protect as surely as we protect all of its people. Our greatness lies not in power over others or immense wealth but in the hopes and dreams of a citizenry that represents virtually every country on this earth. 

I am thankful to King Charles for reminding us all of what has made us great and challenging us to do the right thing as we walk into the future. I like to think that Queen Elizabeth and my mother are both smiling in heaven and maybe even enjoying a cup of tea together as they celebrate as two equal and wonderful women. Here on earth may we remember to be the kind of people who cherish freedom and equality for all just as Mama and Queen Elizabeth urged me and the king to be.  

It is never too late to be what you might have been. —- John F. Kennedy

We all have dreams in our youth. Some are fanciful like my one time goal to be an airline stewardess who lived in New York City. Some are aspirational like my thoughts of becoming a published writer. Some fit our personalities like my joy of learning that led me to becoming a teacher. 

I would not mind having enough money to always feel comfortable and able to fulfill all of my dreams but I have learned after seven decades that the best things in life are free and that having just enough is good enough. I became a teacher because it suited who I was. I began learning from my father who introduced me to reading when I was a small child. He read poetry to me and constantly took me to bookstores and libraries. I watched him build a replica of our home out of little strips of balsa wood that he carefully cut and put together just like someone building a real house. He showed me how to create a sidewalk that would last for decades and spoke with me of history and wondrous places. He insisted that I never underestimate myself nor allow anyone else to do so. 

Under his brief tutelage I suppose that it was almost enviable that I would be drawn to the idea of sharing my knowledge with others, but like him I often found myself longing to do more. I began writing once I had retired because I believed that it is never too late to accomplish a dream. Now I mostly write for my own satisfaction. The act of writing is second nature to me. It is a calming experience for which I devote time virtually every single day. 

Some people cook or sew or work in their gardens for fun. I like to write down my thoughts. I suppose if they interest or inspire someone that is like gravy on top of my joy. I sometimes dream that just the right person will notice some of my work and suddenly contact me to help me to publish my thoughts on a wider scale. I suppose that such thoughts are mostly the grist from my lively imagination. I don’t expect a call from Stephen King insisting that I am the next great author but the dream of such a thing is as fun as reality. I write for the same reason I read and learn. It is because my father taught me how much fun it is to do those things. He showed me how to keep my mind eternally active. 

I’m not sure that my father had enough time on this earth to be what he might have been. I always imagine NASA coming to town and piquing his interest as a mechanical engineer. I feel certain that he would have been over the moon at the thought of helping humans to actually go to the moon. After all, he already had many books predicting that very thing in the future. He only had to live a few more years and I think he might have finally found the dream job that he was seeking. 

I enjoyed my life as a teacher so much that it has never really ended. Almost as soon as I had retired I made it known that I was looking for opportunities to tutor students. I knew that I no longer wanted to work all day long five days a week but the idea of teaching for an hour here or there was tantalizing. Here I am fifteen years after my official retirement still homeschooling and tutoring young people. Each time I think of officially retiring someone comes along to convince me to keep going. I have to admit that some of the happiest moment of my days are spent with young men and women working to determine who they want to be. 

I suppose that one of my latest wishes is to grow old gracefully and to dedicate myself to making the world an inviting place for the next generation. Perhaps my greatest talent is to be the grand encourager like my father was for me. It only took eight years for him to imprint on my soul the joy to be found in constantly exploring new places and new ideas. He showed me how glorious an open mind can be. I like to think that I am not stuck in rigid ideologies but rather open to new ideas and the incredible creativity, diversity and inventiveness of humans. 

I suppose that in a sense even as I inch toward being an octogenarian I am still learning and seeking truth, not stodgy beliefs. I like to think that my reading and learning and teaching has shown me how to evolve more and more into the person that I might be. These days it is from the young people that I seem to grow the most in my understanding of our gloriously diverse humanity. I like to think that my father would be proud of the person that I continue to become.