Month: March 2020

A Better Investment

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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When I was a student I earned a four year scholarship to any state school of my choice. Since I liked my hometown university and didn’t want to disrupt my mother’s well being by adding to her stress I enrolled in the University of Houston, the same school that Elizabeth Warren attended at about the same time. It was a happy decision for both me and my mom because that scholarship would take care of all of the costs as long as I kept up my grades.

My first year was exciting to me because I had been incredibly isolated up to that time. I had essentially attended school with the same group of students from second grade with a few more coming from Catholic schools in the area when I went to high school. My neighborhood was my world and I rarely went beyond its periphery. Even then it was to shop at nearby stores or to visit relatives. I was decidedly unaware of the rest of my growing city or the world outside beyond what I read in newspapers and books. Going to a large public university was somewhat akin to being thrown into a shark tank, but I was more than ready for the challenge. In fact, I wanted it more than anything. I saw striking out into a school where I would literally become a number as an exciting way to get a college experience without leaving town and making things difficult for my parent.

My first year at the University of Houston was a revelation. I had a few classes in huge auditoriums where there were almost as many students as half of the population of my private high school. Others, like a German seminar, had under twenty in the group. I went to Greek parties, attended the football games, hang out in the Cougar Den, participated in civil rights and antiwar demonstrations, and saw celebrities up close like Mohammed Ali who was still using his birth name of Cassius Clay. I met students from Alaska and around the world. It was a heady experience during which I kept up my grades to insure that my scholarship would be secure. Unfortunately I was totally unaware that I had an obligation to re-apply for the financial aid each year to verify that I was indeed maintaining a high grade point average.

Back then the process of registration for classes was an abomination. Each student received a specific time to wait in a line and then be allowed into an auditorium where grad students manned desks for each major. They had boxes of computer cards that represented the individual classes according to professor, meeting time and section number. I had to race from one station to another to hopefully secure cards for the courses that I wanted to take. If the cards were gone from one of my choices I had to make on the spot decisions regarding what to take because my scholarship required me to take a certain number of hours as well as to graduate within four years.

As a sophomore I was far more prepared for the onslaught than I had been as a freshman and I felt confident in the preparations I had made for the challenge of securing a decent schedule. In fact I had my fifteen hours secured without a hitch and as I walked to the financial aid station to get my scholarship money and guarantee my classes for another semester I felt somewhat smug. I had little idea that my world was about to shatter.

I handed my computer cards to the worker and gave her my student number so that she might verify the payment for them. She scanned the lists with a bored expression that did not change until she had reached the end and had failed to find my information. She asked me to write my full name and student number on a piece of paper that she used as a kind of guide to run down the list one more time. Still she found nothing and panic began to overtake me. I barely heard her instructions to take my cards and myself to the financial aid office to determine what was wrong.

Once I got to the official domain of loans and scholarships I wrote my name on a long list and sat waiting for what felt like eternity. A rather brusk woman ushered me into her office to find out what I needed. She made no attempt to hide her impatience instead rushing me to describe my problem. Without saying a word she began searching through alphabetized files. Within a few minutes she returned to her desk with a folder that evidently contained my information. Without fanfare she announced, “You no longer have the scholarship. You did not renew it.”

I felt as though I had been gut punched and was hardly able to admit that I had no idea that I had to renew the scholarship. I thought that it was good for four years as long as I kept my grades in order. Nobody had ever mentioned to me that there was a yearly process beyond simply going to classes, making the grades and then returning for a new semester.

The woman barely contained her annoyance with my whining that was rapidly turning into tears. She announced that there was nothing that she might do to help. My scholarship was gone, not just for that semester but forever. She made it clear that I needed to move on and allow her to get back to her work with the long line of other students who were seeking information. I left with my tail between my legs because I had no idea how I was going to pay for my classes and I did not want to ask my mother for money that I knew she did not have.

After spending several minutes sobbing inside a stall in the bathroom I screwed up my courage and came up with a plan. I had worked all summer and I had just enough funds to cover the classes and pay for my books. My fun money would be gone but at least I would still have courses to attend. I managed to pay for my classes then and in future semesters and never once had to secure a student loan which gets me to the heart of my story.

Back then the cost of college was low enough that I was able to work part-time and earn the funds needed to cover expenses. Today the price tag on even state universities has soared to ridiculous levels. A little work here and there is not sufficient to pay the bills of learning. Adding to the difficulty is the fact that today’s students are limited to the amount of time that they may take before graduating and being forced to begin the repayment process on loans with interest rates that would make Shylock appear benign. Instead of having a set payment for a certain amount of time those student loans operate more like a credit card, growing at a frightening rate as time passes. It can take years for someone to pay them back even when they are lucky enough to land a well paying job.

I find myself wondering what I would have done and where I would be today if the cost of my education had been in the same league with what students now face. I suppose that I would have had to drop out for a semester and gone to work until I had saved enough to return or somehow secure a loan. I managed to pay for two degrees from rather low paying jobs. By the time my daughters went to college my husband and I had to take out loans which took years to repay. The situation students face today is more dire than ever. I paid around five hundred dollars a semester for my undergraduate degree. Their tabs are more in the range of tens of thousands of dollars. Even using proportion based on the increases in salaries over the years the expenses related to  university educations has blown up to almost untenable levels. We need to find a reasonable plan for dealing with this, and so far the ideas are not particularly well thought out.

I think that universities should begin the process by cutting unnecessary items from their budgets. We did not have fully loaded gyms and entertainment venues on campus back in the day. We got by with a more bare bones approach to education that concentrated on the basics but still provided exceptional teaching. We can also streamline the student loan business and set up contracts with students that work more like the kind of loans that one might get to purchase a car or home rather than treating them like credit card charges that can take years to repay. There should be lower payment incentives for students who maintain high grade point averages or who major in particularly needed fields. Instead of placing hefty tax burdens on the wealthy there should be tax breaks for those who invest their money in educating worthy students, thereby increasing the number of scholarships or no interest loans available. Grandparents, aunts, uncle, friends, employees, businesses who help students should receive some kind of tax credit thereby making such contributions attractive. I’d certainly rather send my some of the money that I now pay in taxes to a worthy student. Such outreach should by definition include helping individuals pay for trade schooling as well as traditional university educations.

It’s way past time for our country to invest in the education of our youth. It need not mean a great burden on unwilling tax payers and it does not have to be free and without strings. It simply needs to be a complete overhaul that seeks to cut costs, incentivize the process of helping students to pay for college or any form of training, and find ways to simplify loans so that they have a set payment schedule that ends by a certain date. We can make things better but it won’t happen until we get serious and have a bit of compassion for the young people who really do want to make a better future for themselves and the rest of us. We need them to carry on the work of this nation. I can’t think of a better investment for the good of all of us.

On Becoming a Warrior

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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There was a time when I was a scared little rabbit. Most people who know me from my youth remember a quite and shy person. Those who have been acquainted with me in my adult years would be shocked to know that I was once afraid of my own shadow. I suppose that I was essentially forced to change my ways by circumstance.

I had always relied on my mother to fight battles for the family. She was daring, willingly to face down any challenge. She always told us not to be intimidated by anyone because people are just people. For whatever reason I still felt somehow less than and never wanted to actually confront any issues. I learned how to hide in the shadows and just be comfortable not rocking the boat.

My first foray into speaking up for what I believed came in Debate class. I found that if I  researched a topic I felt strong enough to voice persuasive arguments and to refute opposing ideas. It was as though I was able to create an alternative persona when I was engaged in formal debate just long enough to present my arguments. I discovered that I was actually fairly good at speaking up for myself.

My real transformation came when I was twenty years old and my mom experienced a psychotic break. It was a traumatic time for me and my brothers and at first I attempted to convince one of my aunts or uncles to take responsibility for getting care for her since my dad was dead. They each in turn insisted that they had no idea what to do and wished me luck as I navigated the world of mental health. I knew that if my mother was going to get well I would have to be the one to take charge. I understood that I was on my own.

The funny thing is that up until that moment I had never even driven on the freeways of Houston. Since she ended up being treated in a downtown hospital I had to also learn how to navigate the roads as quickly as I had to become her advocate. My days as a child ended forever in that moment,  which was good because I would face a number of daunting challenges while still in my early twenties. I would become tough and worldly wise, convinced that I was capable of handling most anything.

My mom’s mental illness was chronic so I became her lifelong caretaker. Before long I also had two children, one of whom developed hearing problems that required medical attention and my ability to find the proper doctors and therapies for her. On top of all of those things my husband contracted a rare fungal disease and spent three months in the hospital undergoing chemotherapy before I had even turned twenty five. Luckily by then I was a self assured outspoken woman who fully understood what my mother had always taught me, namely that working with other people was not as difficult as it had once seemed.

I suppose that those early adult years fashioned my courage in ways that lead me in the direction of being a champion for anyone with a need. At work I spoke up for my fellow teachers and fought for my students. It seemed that nobody frightened me even on occasions when they probably should have. I endured the wrath of one principal when I pointed out her abuse of the faculty. She threatened me and my career but I stood strong and in the end the school board learned of my complaints, investigated and asked her to resign.

Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself as being the person of my youth. I was definitely a late bloomer but when I began to flower forth I never looked back. I assumed an overdeveloped sense of purpose and no fear when it came to speaking up.

Ironically I am still a rather quiet and circumspect individual. I don’t like to draw much attention to myself but I will shout from the rooftops if someone is in trouble. Otherwise I lead a rather unremarkable life. I prefer my routines and the familiar hum of ordinary days. I try not to become obnoxious in my opinions because I’ve learned that nobody is likely to change just because I show them a different point of view. Still, I have been able to bring about positive change now again by respectfully suggesting alternative arguments just as I did when I was a debater.

I now possess a strength that allows me to feel good about myself. I learned from my mother’s example and refined my courage because of her illnesses. My tutelage was outstanding and provided me with the foundation I needed to battle challenges that might once have crushed me. Having an important cause had the power of turning me into a warrior. I’m strong and I like being that way.

Twenty Questions

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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A young man recently asked me to answer a set of twenty questions regarding my life. They were quite thought provoking, but more importantly they forced me to contemplate the arc of my life and how I had been affected by both unplanned events and the choices that I made. All in all I realized as I honestly reflected on all that I have experienced that mine has been a good life. While I’ve endured some rough patches much as most people do, I was able to overcome them because of the lessons I learned from my parents and the support of extended family and friends. At the end of the day it’s not so much what things I have amassed that is important as the sense of well being that I have because of a feeling that I have generally done my best to live well.

So often my life took turns that I would not have chosen on my own but my mother had shown me how to take back the power by reacting hopefully to even the most devastating events. She used to tell me to watch and learn and I suppose that I became an expert at sitting back and quietly observing how the people around me dealt with the blows that were thrown at them. Over and over again I witnessed acts of courage and strength that both inspired me and made me an optimistic person. I learned that we don’t always get what we thought we wanted but often we find something even better than what we had dreamed.

I was at dinner with my grandson and his brilliant and beautiful girlfriend and we had the most remarkable conversation. We spoke of how much my grandson physically resembles my father whom he quite naturally called “Grandpa Jack.” He commented that somehow my dad’s legacy had quite clearly registered with him. He wanted to believe that he is carrying on the traditions of a man that neither he nor his mother had ever met. Amazingly he is so much like my father, his “Grandpa Jack,” that it is almost uncanny. I smiled at the thought of how proud my father would have been to hear our discussions of history, philosophy, and great ideas. It was just the sort of thing that he so enjoyed. Had he been present he would have been beaming with joy and yet he had left this earth when he was only thirty three. It is remarkable how much we carry the marks of our ancestors even when we never knew them.

My mother and father both taught me to appreciate the happiness that comes from learning, exploring, challenging the mind. From a very young age they exposed me to music, literature, visual arts, mathematics, science. It seemed natural to me to spend hours poring over a book. All I ever needed as a child was my bicycle and a library card to find a state of nirvana. I never really noticed that our family was struggling to make ends meet because I was so busy exploring the world around me. My mother taught my brothers and I that there was always a way to survive if we used our wits and were willing to work hard. We watched her earn a college degree when she was in her forties. To say that she inspired us was an understatement.

I had once thought of being a doctor. I slowly realized that I wanted that career more for the income and prestige it would bring me than for the sense of purpose it would provide. Slowly but surely I found myself returning to the idea of being a teacher, something that many people counseled me against doing. They reminded me that I was capable of doing great things and they somehow believed that teaching was not worthy of my intellect. In my heart I knew that they were wrong. I found great personal satisfaction in working with young children and attempting to instill in them the values and love of learning that my father had shown me. Once I became a teacher I was satisfied that I had found meaning in life. Only once did I consider trying something different and luckily a professor convinced me that leaving education would tear my very soul apart.

With the twenty questions I had to speak of my childhood friendships which were rather remarkable in that I am still great friends with individuals with whom I went to elementary school. I can meet with neighborhood playmates and talk for hours as though we still live just down the street from one another. I have high school friends who constantly remind me of my good fortune. They were the foundation upon which I built my adult life. They never really knew how much they meant to me when times became tough for my mother and brothers and me. I have met people along the way at church, work and in my neighborhood who have sustained me and made me realize the importance and goodness of friendships.

Answering those twenty questions reminded me of the blessings that have helped me through the difficult times that each of us invariably face. Those inquiries showed me that I did indeed learn from the example of my parents, my extended family and my friends. Those probes into my past not only will help a young man to complete a project for one of his classes but they also helped me to reflect on the wondrous ways in which both accident and effort define who I am. I’m happy to pronounce that I feel quite good about how things turned out, something that might have been different were it not for a host of individuals who walked with me along the way. 

We’ll See

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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My grandfather was a natural born storyteller. He had a tendency, however, to repeat the same tales again and again which didn’t actually bother us at all. He had a way of recounting the narratives that was fascinating. We each had our favorites from his repertory. I was spellbound by his account of helping his grandmother to amputate the crushed leg of a miner. I tried to imagine a world in which a twelve year old would have to do such a thing before the dawn of the twentieth century in an area so isolated that people had to take care of themselves for lack of a nearby doctor.

Grandpa also spoke of a time when he was a bit older during which his father and stepmother contracted smallpox. He became their caretaker and endured a forced quarantine that involved having an armed guard walk the perimeter of the property to ensure that nobody other than a doctor went in or came out of the house. My grandfather was a virtual prisoner while his folks struggled for their very lives. He says he never really thought about his own safety until the ordeal was finally over. In the meantime he was certain that his father was going to die. In fact he noted that it almost appeared as though his dad’s nose was going to fall from his face because he was so ravaged with the puss filled sores.

Grandpa’s two charges eventually beat the disease and the people of the town marveled that he never came down with the illness given how contagious it was. They began to treat him with a new regard as though he were some sort of super human. They hired him to travel around the county shooting stray dogs that they believed might be responsible for carrying the disease. While my grandfather was a bit squeamish about taking the lives of innocent critters he could not be certain that they were guilt free with regard to being carriers of smallpox and so he went on the hunt and put a bit of change in his pockets to boot.

Grandpa was as surprised as his neighbors that he never caught smallpox from his parents but he explained away the mystery by noting that he had always been rather immune to sickness. I suppose that his theory was somewhat proven by the fact that he lived to be one hundred eight years old and rarely even had a cold.

After he was gone I first heard about the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic that killed millions of people worldwide. I would have liked to ask him how he did during that viral outbreak. I’ve often wondered if he managed to escape illness even in the dire circumstances of that epidemic.

While I’d like to believe that I might have inherited some magic gene from him that will protect me from major contagions, experience has taught me that I generally fall to whatever illness is on the prowl. I had the mumps before I even started first grade and the chickenpox overtook me shortly after that. I caught the measles in the winter of 1958 when I was in the fourth grade and I do believe that I may have been the sickest of my lifetime then. I’d later develop a case of hepatitis that stuck with me for over three months. I literally worried that I had a chronic type because my body refused to shake the illness. Back in about 2009, I caught the swine flu which ended up being a real humdinger. My temperature lingered in the 103 degree range for several days and I felt a bit delirious at times. Still I have always managed to fight off diseases with no lasting effects. Maybe I’m not so much like my grandfather as like his father who appeared to reach the brink of death with smallpox but came miraculously back to life to live many more years.

My doctors tell me over and over again that I am a strong and healthy woman. They sometimes can’t believe how well I am doing given my age. I’ve got some brittle bones, an esophagus that likes to narrow, some arthritic knees, and a bit of elevated cholesterol but otherwise my heart is fabulous and I show signs of being someone who may live long enough to tell my own stories of life in the “old” days.

I have to admit to being concerned about the coronavirus. I’m attempting to prepare for a worst case scenario while also remaining optimistic that the worldwide medical community will somehow manage to keep its spread in check. I worry a bit about the fact that it appears to have the worst effect on older individuals which would include large numbers of my family and circle of friends. I also somewhat selfishly would hate to think that it might somehow interfere with my planned summer trip to Scotland. More importantly though is the pain and disruption that it might potentially inflict on so many people in the world. I really don’t want anything like the 1918 pandemic to ever happen again. I’ve read enough about it to understand how terrifying it must have been.

I take small comfort in my grandfather’s story of survival in a time when there were few alternatives to simply suffering through the impact of disease. Somehow we humans made it then and I have little doubt that we will do so again. In the meantime I’m setting aside lots of soap and disinfectants and prepping for whatever may come. Hopefully it will just be a normal summer with a trip to Scotland and Olympics in July. We’ll see.

Any Questions?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

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My favorite students were always the ones who asked questions. They were unafraid to seek answers for whatever concerns were on their minds. I always cringed whenever I heard a colleague shutting down a youngster by brusquely indicating irritation with inquiries that they thought were “stupid.” I don’t believe that there is ever a question from a child or an adult for that matter that is unworthy of some kind of response. I truly believe that the innate curiosity that prompts inquiries from little ones is the very foundation upon which we humans learn. Somewhere along the developmental path so many lose their willingness to seek answers to the issues that trouble their minds.

The great discoveries and philosophies of the world began with questions. Our wonder drives our inventiveness. We are creative beings who see our environments through a lens of inquisitiveness. We are not merely satisfied to accept our environment as it is. We want to know why it is. We are not only capable of thinking, but also of thinking about how we think. We have a need to understand that is guided by the questions that surface in our minds.

I enjoy a lively discussion in which each person’s ideas are respected and given a platform. I like to hear how other people think about societal issues. It matters little to me whether or not I agree with them. I am simply fascinated by the different paths that individuals follow. At the same time I am always disturbed by efforts to silence those with whom we disagree. We lose something when we only associate ourselves with like minded individuals. Our need to delve deeper into inquires evaporates when we only hear what we already believe. It may feel good to have our philosophies reinforced but it does nothing to expand our minds, to learn something that we never before knew. Being around conflicting opinions forces us to critically parse the information that we are hearing, an exercise that we seem to do so little of these days.

I think that perhaps the most important question that we may ask ourselves is why we are so often afraid of questions. We hide from them in the guise of being irritated but what I believe is really happening is that we feel challenged in a way that moves us out of our comfort zone and into the realm of unknowns that shake the very foundations of what we believe. It can be a terrifying but also exhilarating moment to suddenly wonder if perhaps there is indeed a new way of looking at the world.

In the long ago when my husband was a graduate student at the University of Houston he received invitations from a professor who hosted intellectual soirees at his home. It was a gathering of academics who spent the evening sitting in a circle discussing the great theories and inquires of the world. The professor would jump start the proceedings with a question of his own that was not meant to elicit a specific response but rather a multitude of possible responses. I generally sat and just listened to the remarkable variety of thinking that ensued. I felt that my own view of life expanded just from hearing so many novel ideas, some of which challenged the very foundations of what I had always believed. I found both the complementary and conflicting philosophies to be liberating as they created more and more questions in my mind.

I worry that today’s society has set boundaries for independent thinking that are as rigid as those teachers that I have witnessed ridiculing students for asking questions that appear to be without merit. There is a stifling of free thought that will in turn limit the depth of learning that every society needs to thrive. It has to be okay to think in unique ways without fearing retaliation. Our schools must be forums in which everyone is willing to suspend preconceived notions for the sake of finding new possibilities. Debate needs to be reinstated to its former glory as a way of seeking truth through logic and a willingness to consider many sides of an argument. We should all be insisting that we hear all voices, not just those that already concur with what we believe. Without truly open discourse we stagnate as individuals and as a society.

The great moments of history have been guided by a kind of enlightenment, imperfect for certain but nonetheless willing to look at our human existence in unique ways. Where would we be without the methods of Socrates, the groundbreaking inquisitiveness of Leonardo da Vinci, the observant genius of Shakespeare, the brilliance of Descartes, the revolutionary ideas of Locke? The greatest minds ask questions seeking not only the given but also the unknown. Truth is found not by drowning the voices of those with whom we disagree but by quieting our own long enough to see that tiny grain of truth hidden in the bombast. Inquiry is not just about questions but also about a willingness to honestly hear the answers being offered.

I suppose that for me the most important question of all is, “How can we humans best develop our willingness to learn through honest and open inquiry that proceeds with a willingness to hear all voices before drawing conclusions?” This should be the most natural way to learn but at least for now we seem to have chosen to dialogue only with those who agree with us and feign indignation when we encounter those who don’t. I doubt we will see much progress until we change our ways.