Month: August 2018

Stop the Insanity

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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I no longer watch CNN or Fox News. In spite of claims to the contrary both cable news stations report events with a definite bias. The big three of CBS, NBC and ABC do a bit better, but all too often even their storylines seems to march in tandem. I find the BBC to be far more interesting and informative than any of our national news services because they are not as obsessed with influencing American politics. I read from a number of news sources and rarely find one that simply provides facts without editorial comments. Journalism today is not like it was when I once dreamed of becoming a writer for a newspaper or magazine. Back then articles were a treasure trove of “who, what, when” rather than hidden persuasions. As Joe Friday used to insist on Dragnet  the columns that we read on the first page were comprised of “just the facts” not that long ago. Editorials were labeled as such and found in a different section of the paper.

I almost barf every time I hear the term “fake news.” It’s become a ploy for changing the topic and insinuating that the media is making things up. I seriously don’t believe that is the case, but I do feel that the line between pure reporting and editorializing has been blurred beyond distinction. As such we are treated to a continual stream of attempts to influence our thinking rather than a simple presentation of information. It used to be that the critical thinking was left to the reader. Now it is as though every report is couched in persuasive arguments that are hidden between the lines. That’s not fake news, it’s just sloppy journalism.

As a result of this mode of reporting we tend to divide into camps where issues are not judged on their distinct merits, but rather in a way characterized by highly generalized thinking. For example, the word “Republican” is casually used by to indicate someone who voted for Donald Trump and is guilty of a number of vile “isms.” Such people are pictured as being mostly white, male and rather uneducated. Reporters carefully choose individuals who fit their preconceived notions to support their thinking. In other words they work backwards from ideas they wish to promote. This results in those who are more progressive casting a self righteous eye of indignation toward anyone who dares to espouse even a hint of conservatism, and of late it more and more often applies to anyone who has certain Christian beliefs.

On the other side are right leaning news outlets who demonizes Democrats by lumping them all together as dangerous socialists intent on destroying our democracy. They even eat their own kind by throwing under the bus any conservative who dares to disagree with them. Donald Trump was elected in part because many of the conservative commentators used a scorched earth manner of reporting on those Republicans who were moderate or willing to compromise. In the meantime the far left dropped these same individuals into a catch all basket of deplorables and destroyed their political ambitions.

Our news on all sides is more hyperbolic than fair and balanced, making it difficult for any of us to get a clear idea of what is really happening and what will work best to solve problems. It’s a “my way or the highway” kind of world that is tearing apart families and friendships as more and more people jump onboard with the self righteousness of the far left or the far right. It seems to me that most of the media is missing the point that we are indeed being manipulated, but not as much by Russians as by our own press. The stories that they write may not be fake, but they are riddled with far too many propaganda techniques that are churning us up and dividing us from one another. I hate to point this out, but it’s a method that has been used since time immemorial to fool the populace.

I for one have grown weary of it, and find it increasingly difficult not to notice all of the rhetorical devices being peppered into virtually every report of the news. The clinker for me is that it is not just one group or one political point of view that is propagating this style. It has found it’s way into everything, leaving us with no recourse other than to be very careful about learning the truth of anything that we see or read. Having a bit of skepticism would serve us all well.

We’ve reached a kind of watershed in which forces around us are playing with our emotions, and in many ways it is working. It’s up to each of us to halt this dangerous trend by realizing that we can’t use labels of any kind to define individual human beings. A firm sociological principal is that we can’t generalize to an entire population based on a single anecdote and yet that is exactly what many of today’s journalists are doing to increase ratings and their own popularity. That isn’t fake. It’s very real and dangerous for the health of our country.

I believe that most of us feel uncomfortable with the bickering and the dividing that is taking place. It’s time that we lead ourselves out this predicament by putting the brakes on attempts to influence our thinking and our beliefs. We need to turn off the noise when we hear it. It’s easy to identify the difference between good reporting and blathering. If we refuse to listen to those who are editorializing rather than reporting, they will soon go away. Reporting the news is a business. If the powers that be realize that we no longer care for their way of doing things, they will change. We are the customers. We have the power. Let’s stop the insanity.

Gratitude

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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It was during the middle of the Great Depression that a monastery in New York began offering food each afternoon to citizens who were hungry and out of work. The fare was rather plain, just a sandwich with nothing special about it, but it was substantial. Often it was the only meal of the day for some of the recipients. Those who came reacted to the meager offering in many different ways. Some were so hungry that they gulped down the food in only seconds. Others ate half of the sandwich and saved the rest for a later time when they would once again feel the pangs of starvation. There were those who took the food home to share with others. Then there were always a very few who grumbled that the meal wasn’t very tasty, somehow forgetting the gratitude that they might have shown. Nonetheless the monks continued their daily ritual giving as much as possible to the multitudes who came even though their own pantry was sometimes bare.

I heard this story a few Sundays ago and I thought of how often we tend to take our blessings for granted, and sometimes even complain when given a gift out of the generosity of someone’s heart. We are truly a land of plenty compared to some parts of the world where hunger is rampant. In such places children regularly lie dying from lack of nourishment, their bellies swollen, their eyes sunken. There are many places in our own country that offer food for those who are not able to provide for themselves and for the most part people are grateful for whatever they receive. Nonetheless we have all seen or heard of those who grumble and seek more than the charitable groups are able to provide. It hurts us when we see generosity being so under appreciated, even as we understand how deprivation can breed anger.

I’m reminded of a chapter in the classic novel To Kill A Mockingbird in which Scout describes a cantankerous old woman who lives near the Finch family. The lady invariably hurls insults at Scout and her brother Jem as they pass in front of her home. One afternoon the woman says such vile things about the children’s father that Jem becomes enraged. He later returns and cuts off all of the blooms on the neighbor’s favorite bush and breaks Scout’s new baton in half. Ultimately he is confronted by his father who chides him and insists that the he be kind to the woman because she is old and sick.

As a punishment for his egregious actions Jem has read to the cranky lady each day. He chooses Ivanhoe as his subject and visits her home every afternoon. Little by little his task becomes less onerous and the woman less and less demanding. When she dies shortly after he has fulfilled his duties Jem learns that she had been addicted to a powerful drug given to her because of her illness. She spent her last days weaning herself from its hold by listening to Jem’s recitations. She died clean and sober with her pride intact. Jem’s father insists that she was one of the bravest people he ever knew.

We never really know what is causing someone to be grumpy or inappreciative. It is easy to chide them for their seeming lack of graciousness, but if we take time to find the source of their crossness we often learn that something quite terrible is plaguing them. Sometimes it is simply the idea of wanting to be thought of as being just as good and important as everyone else. Still, on the whole we would all be better served by being more thankful for whatever we have rather than wishing for more. We appear spoiled, churlish and even a bit childish whenever we judge any kind of gift to be unworthy. Often the things that we receive from people who care about us are the very best that they have to offer, even when they are quite humble. We need to think more about the intent to please us and less about the actual object.

Each day there are probably wonderful opportunities for demonstrating a sense of appreciation. A smile is a gift. Having someone help us with a problem is a blessing. Having a roof to shelter us from the elements is wondrous. Experiencing joy and laughter is beautiful. An education is one of the greatest gifts we might ever receive. Seeing a sunrise one more day, watching a baby play, enjoying the quenching goodness of clean water, sitting under the shade of a tree are such simple things that in reality are glorious. We forget to be thankful for such things because we take them for granted, but we notice immediately when they are gone.

I used to feel embarrassed because my mother sent me to school on most days with a fried egg sandwich. I often tried to hide my meal in shame because it seemed to shout that I was poor. I forgot to be happy that I did not have to go hungry. That egg filled my belly and gave me energy for the afternoon. It was more than better than nothing. It was tasty and made with my mother’s love. It took me years to understand just how lucky I was to have that meal wrapped in waxed paper and gently placed in a brown paper bag to keep me nourished. I was silly and superficial not to be more grateful. It took me many years and many experiences to realize my folly.

Take the time each day to really notice the many gifts coming your way, particularly those that are sent with the best of intentions. Appreciate each little effort, every special gift. Set aside anger or feelings of want and revel in whatever you have. You will soon find your heart filling with contentment. Even a plain sandwich will become a gourmet meal.

  

Love and Work Ethic

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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Saturday mornings never varied when my brothers and I were kids. We’d wake up with the chickens and turn on the shows designed just for children. They were so good back then, and they’d last for hours, or so it seemed. Our mother usually slept a bit late after working all week which we didn’t mind at all because it meant more time to view our programs. When she did finally join us it was usually with a big mug of coffee and a long list of chores that we had to accomplish before the weekend fun began.

Each of us got special jobs beyond the usual duties of cleaning our rooms and folding laundry and putting it away. For some reason I inherited latrine duty. I was as well trained as a G.I. when it came to making our bathroom spic and span. An inspector might have run a mirror under the toilet rim and never found a single germ. I took great pride in my work and enjoyed my mother’s compliments once I had finished. My brothers often had the loathsome task of mowing the lawn which was made even more difficult by the fact that they had to use a push mower with no motor. They claimed that it made them stronger which was probably true, but I always felt terrible for them. Somehow sanitizing the bathroom fixtures seemed much easier than what they had to do.

We always had to change the linens on our beds as part of the weekly routine and our mother taught us how to make tight corners on the top sheet. With our work abilities we would have been great candidates for the military, but none of us ever leaned that way. Instead we imagined ourselves as characters in some exciting adventure as we made up stories to make our work seem more like play. Our mom turned on classical music as we merrily did our chores which were often punctuated with pauses for sword fights or pretend flying through the sky. Somehow she managed to convince us that our labors were tons of fun, so we willingly dusted and swept and made our home gleam again.

On Saturdays once the work was done we were rewarded with a shopping trip. Back then my favorite place was Palm Center because it had the best places to spend the quarter that she gave us for jobs well done. The hunt for some item worthy of our hard earned pay was all part of the fun and our mom was quite patient in allowing us to spend as much time as we needed to make a selection.

During the school week our focus was on our studies. Our mama didn’t worry too much about how the house looked when we had to read, write papers and study for tests. At the end of each evening she’d manage a five or ten minute drill that involved taking whatever belonged to us to our respective rooms. That way the shoes and socks and clothes were confined to the back of the house leaving the front area looking rather nice save for the dust that accumulated from Saturday to Saturday.

My mother and I took turns washing dishes each evening. We couldn’t even imagine having a dishwasher back then. It was a luxury for wealthier folk. Instead we used the sink as it was originally intended, filling it with warm sudsy water on one side and saving the other for rinsing. Mama was compulsive about removing all of the soap residue, so she often checked my work. Luckily she thought that it was okay to let the items air dry on a drainer making the task go more quickly.

Eventually we grew older and added real jobs to our resumes. I was the local babysitter until I landed a position as a summer receptionist at my doctors’ office. I was all of fifteen years old and appeared to be around ten. I must have been quite a sight to the patients, but the doctor thought that my work was swell. He paid me eighty eight dollars a month for my services. I suppose that I was a bargain for him because I worked five days a week from nine in the morning until six at night. I never missed a day and I faithfully accepted payments from the patients and balanced the books at the end of each day. I did this for three summers until I landed a better gig at Holiday Inn. While I didn’t make much money I would one day be quite happy when it came time to claim Social Security. Those quarters from my teen years added up.

My brothers worked at a produce stand along the side of Mykawa Road. Like me they earned little money but they took great pride in their work and were able to get regular pay starting from very young ages. They followed up with a variety of work with better compensation like moving furniture and driving a mail truck for the United States Postal Service.

All three of us eventually graduated from college and later earned advanced degrees. Our work ethic was formed in those years when we were no more than eight or nine. Our mother had high expectations for us and we never wanted to disappoint her. By the time we were adults we had created our own goals and aspirations for ourselves. To this day, even in retirement, we energetically fill our days with a variety of responsibilities and somehow make even the most mundane tasks seem like fun. Our mother slyly taught us how to do that long, long ago. Not only did she require us to learn the value of work, but she did so with heaping mounds of love. That was the real secret to our willingness to work hard even to this very day.

Researchers now agree that two important traits of a good parent are showing love and developing a work ethic in children beginning even when they are small. I recall my mom handing me a dust cloth and demonstrating how to clean her collection of salt and pepper shakers when I could not have been more than about five or six years old. I graduated from there to folding towels and carrying them to the linen closet. Little by little she advanced my skills and those of my brothers, always finding ways to let us know how much she appreciated our efforts, even when she was not able to do so monetarily.

My mother often joked that she should have written a parenting book. She was quite proud that we had turned out so well in spite of being raised in a single parent home. I think that perhaps she was quite right in believing that she had somehow found the secret to mothering success. I still have a tendency to spend my Saturday mornings tidying up my home, and then going out to shop in the afternoon. I turn on music and dance my way around the dusting and mopping and fondly recall those days of long ago when my mother’s routines spelled order, renewal, accomplishment. They set the foundation for lives that my brothers and I have lived quite well.

 

 

 

 

 

A Victim of Circumstance

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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I’m one of those people who believes that whether the government had prevented 9/11 or it had happened as it actually did there would have been those who complained. Every since that fateful day there has been much criticism of TSA  and its methods designed to prevent another such tragedy. I suspect that those folks who watch over as at airports are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Like teachers and police officers they have a sometimes thankless job.

I’ve had a full body pat down in Paris and had to hand over a snow globe that I was carrying onto a plane in New York City. I’ve received glares from TSA agents when I attempted to nervously joke a bit. I find the passage way through the TSA gauntlet to be the most nerve wracking aspect of flying. Still I applaud those fine folks for doing work that few of us would care to endure. I suspect that we’ve mostly been safe as we jet from one place to another since they have been screening passengers. In spite of a few mistakes here and there they have done an admirable job.

It seems that The New York Times recently featured an investigative report revealing that TSA agents watch for certain suspicious behaviors from travelers. Among them are profuse sweating and multiple trips to the bathroom. Folks who do such things are sometimes judged to be unnaturally nervous and up to no good. Often they end up on a no fly list.

I had to laugh out loud when I heard this because on that basis I should most certainly be someone to watch carefully. My long years as a teacher have weakened my bladder to the point of ridiculousness. So many times over the years I had to ignore nature’s call in spite of warning from doctors that doing so would one day cause me grave problems, but what was I to do? I always had to wait for break time or the lunch half hour to take care of my needs. The resulting bladder problem is a common ailment among educators that leads us to the ladies’ room more often than most.

I suppose that visits to the bathroom might be forgiven by the TSA, but I have an additional affliction that might give them pause. I’m one of those lucky women who suffered from hot flashes during menopause. Unfortunately those bursts of profuse perspiration have never gone away. I am liable to grow beet red and without warning end up with droplets of sweat running down my face for no reason at all. It happens so often that I have actually frightened people who worry that I am having some type of medical emergency. It can occur even in freezing weather, and sadly I have been told by my doctor that it will in all probability never go away.

I imagine a TSA agent observing me and wondering if I am some radical old woman ready to do harm as I sweat in my seat and wander back and forth from the bathroom. Little wonder that the agents in France worried enough to pull me aside and feel around for who knows what on my person. Add to that the fact that I was carrying rock specimens for my grandchildren and their reasoning becomes crystal clear.

The Times article appears to have been intended to bring sighs of indignation from those concerned with violations of our civil rights. Nonetheless I find myself sympathizing with TSA rather than being irritated. I know that our human natures will crucify any agent who unwittingly allows a terrorist to get through the airport gaunlet. We won’t be so concerned about fairness if another tragedy occurs. For that reason I actually applaud those folks who are hyper vigilant. I wonder how many times they have prevented disasters that we don’t even know about.

I have a love/hate relationship with flying ever since 9/11. I always breathe a sigh of relief once I have passed inspection. Everything changed on that fateful day when the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center came tumbling down. We became more suspicious and fearful of one another. We began to pull apart as a nation. It didn’t take sweat or trips to the bathroom for us to begin to question our way of life. Ours has been a sad decline into extreme political orthodoxies and divisions. In many ways much of our nation has become as surly as those agents who check us out before we get access to a plane. It is a sad state of affairs that bothers me more than I care to admit, but I don’t mind the TSA agents at all and I urge them to  keep up the good work.

I try to laugh at our problems and keep an even disposition. It’s the only way that we will come out of this anxious state of mind that so plagues us. So if you see me sweating as I wait in a long line at the airport just know that I am simply a victim of Mother Nature and lousy circumstance. If I worry you because I make so many trips to the bathroom have pity and maybe even a bit of appreciation for one of the sacrifices I made as a teacher. I mean no harm to anyone in how I act, and I love our TSA.

An Open and Loving Heart

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment
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I have to admit that I am one of those people who is sometimes uncomfortable with my appearance. I’ve had hair dressers and acquaintances make negative comments about my tresses, noting how difficult it is to do anything with them because they are so baby fine. When I complained about having bangs it was noted that my forehead is too high to sweep my locks back away from my face. I’ve been asked if I’ve had a stroke because one of my eyelids is drooping noticeably. I never had much of a chin, and I try to forget that facial flaw until someone asks if I’ve ever thought of surgery. I don’t think that anyone intends to be mean by making such comments. They are probably just passing suggestions meant to give me ideas for self improvement, but sadly they only tend to remind me of my imperfections.

I’m old enough now to just let such comments go, but like any other woman I’d love to be viewed as someone who is physically beautiful. Instead I concentrate of making my heart a lovely place for people find solace. I smile and live with myself just as I am. At this point in time I understand all too well that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the pursuit of vain glorious attractiveness is worth far less than concentrating on the really important aspects of life.

Our society doesn’t help much with its barrage of so called icons of feminine pulchritude. We are continually reminded of what is thought to be pretty and what is not. Hair and makeup are billion dollar industries, and with all of that emphasis on appearance women often feel as though they are judged not just on their character and talents, but also on their physical presentation.

Social media with its constant flow of photographs and selfies makes beauty seem to be even more important than it ever was. With filters and editing so many ladies and young girls are now removing wrinkles and flaws in attempts to perfect themselves. Now there is a real psychological thing called Snapchat dysmorphia. It is an overwhelming desire to look exactly like the perfected images that appear on the pages of Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat. In fact, psychologists are learning that many females are often fearful of appearing in person lest their friends learn that they are less beautiful than the photos that they have created of themselves. Some are even going as far as visiting plastic surgeons hoping to make the altered versions of themselves become reality.

I’m not against a bit of self improvement. I enjoy perusing the aisles of Ulta as much as anyone. I apply night creams and moisturizers to my face, and correct my dark circles as much as possible. I like to brighten my face with cosmetics, and I get my hair trimmed once a month and highlighted twice a year. I find nothing more relaxing than enjoying a good pedicure. Still, I worry that we are unintentionally adding just one more stress to women’s plates by not so subtly implying that physical beauty is an important aspect of success.

When I was growing up I was typically gangly. I was probably in the eighth grade before I even thought about attempting to make myself more presentable. That’s when I suddenly became aware of the real beauties around me. In fact, my one and only female cousin was one of those people with golden locks that swirled naturally around her lovely face. As the two of us grew into our teenage years she became known among members of the extended family as the pretty one while I was the smart one. Little did I know that while I was longing to be thought of as attractive at least once, she was stewing over the idea that she was not considered to be as bright as I was. No such delineations were ever directed at the males in the family. They were simply whoever they wished to be. While I don’t believe that my family or most people set out to deliberately make young girls and women feel uncomfortable about themselves, we still have a way of sending hidden messages and hurtful comments without intending to do so.

I’m not certain that there is a clear answer to this conundrum other than insisting to our little girls that beauty is a total package that includes character and talents, not just an image. A truly exceptional and caring person becomes attractive in our eyes without makeup or coiffure.

We all know of people who are lovely by dent of personality rather than superficiality. In particular I recall a student that I once taught who had been badly burned over most of her body. Her face was horribly scarred to the point that people often looked away when she passed before them. Over the course of a school year I learned just how remarkable she was, and over time she became transformed in my mind to a one of the most gorgeous people I have ever known.

If I had one bit of advice for young women it would be to just smile and look beyond themselves. The most beautiful woman in the room is always the one who is more concerned with others than with herself. It doesn’t take plastic surgery or filters to be attractive. It only requires an open and loving heart.