Month: February 2022

I have been rather complacent for most of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I was quite active in promoting and participating in the civil rights movement when I was in college. I spent over forty years advocating for my mentally ill mom. I fought for educational opportunities for every child. Beyond that though I’ve been rather chill through most of my life. My involvement in politics other than voting was practically nil. My life was good so I felt that I had little reason to be concerned about much beyond the confines of my home. 

I tend to be a person who spurns conflict. I’m diplomatic by nature and ever so polite. I prefer blending into the background to leading a movement. I prefer quiet to raucous events. Sometimes, however, duty calls and I feel compelled to speak out no matter what doing so may cost me. 

Many years ago I was working at one of my all time favorite schools. Every single day of teaching there was a joy and I sometimes imagined myself retiring from the place like a female version of Mr. Chips. Sadly, the environment quickly changed when a new principal arrived to manage all aspects of the school. At first she was nice enough, but she gradually demonstrated a number of disturbing ideas and habits. After a time she became downright authoritarian and even a bit disturbing. For example, the girls’ Physical Education Teacher installed curtains on the showers that she purchased with her own money to provide the young ladies with some privacy. When the principal saw them she unexpectedly became infuriated and stormed out of the gym. A few minutes later she returned bearing a large pair of scissor that she used to cut down the curtains in front of the stunned coach. 

It would take pages to recount the outrageous things the principal was doing but suffice it to say that morale among the teachers was incredibly low. Many members of the faculty were mumbling and grumbling and whispering about plans to leave the school as soon as they found teaching positions elsewhere. One of them was a dedicated educator who was undergoing chemotherapy for cancer. She had managed to schedule all of her infusions after school hours so that over the many weeks she had never missed a single day of work. Instead of applauding her for her courage and sacrifice the principal had complained that the woman had lost her energy and enthusiasm, giving her a low mark on an evaluation. 

I suppose that I have always been a champion of the underdog, so I took it upon myself to make an appointment with the principal to outline some of the concerns that my colleagues and I had. I did it in the spirit of helping her to understand that morale was nil. I thought she would thank me for my honesty, but instead she interrogated me for eight hours as though I was a criminal. She wanted me to name the people who had complained about her which I refused to do. In the end I knew that I would have to leave the place that had once been so wonderful. After I left, the school board fired her. 

Sometimes being complacent is a cowardly thing. There really are moments when we need to assert ourselves, speak out. It’s been said that the only thing worse than a bad person abusing others is a good person who says nothing. Silence can be damning to those without the ability to defend themselves. Accepting the status quo just because it has always been there way can often be hurtful. We may want to look the other way, but we know in our hearts that doing so is wrong. 

Complacency is sometimes an indication of satisfaction and maybe even happiness. It’s uncomfortable to be in a position of needing to defend or assist or care for those who have no voice. Most people would rather walk away from a difficult situation than deal with it. I know that feeling as well as anyone because there were many instances when I wanted to wash my hands of dealing with my mother’s mental illness. I thought of how wonderful it would be to ignore it or run away from it. Instead I had to face it. 

Everyone has difficulties, some of which are very dark and which they never share with others. They paste on a happy face and greet the world as though all is well. Sadly they may be enduring unimaginable hurt and pain, accepting their situations, with a stiff upper lip. While I understand that there are people don’t wish to share their personal trials, I worry about those who ignore abuse and injustice whether it is happening to them, someone they know or a stranger. More often than we wish, we must step out of our comfort zones to face the problems of this world head on. 

I’ve noticed that the history of the world has a kind of recurring rhythm. Humans rage against problems for a time, foment changes, and then retreat back into a kind of quiet complacency. They become weary of the battles and need to recoup until the pressure from real troubles becomes too much to bear and then they rally again. 

I suspect that we are in one of those periods in which some situations can no longer be ignored. We have a worldwide health emergency. Russia is rattling sabers. The economy is bowing under the strain of two years of uncertainty. The world’s homeless population only continues to grow. Mental illnesses are raging. Crime is out of control with more guns on the streets than there are people. Climate change is destroying homes and lives. 

We may want to pretend to be normal with our parties and concerts and movies, but inside we know that complacency has no place in our schedules right now. No one person or group is to blame for any of the challenges facing us. It will take all of us and much sacrifice to make genuine efforts to set things right. We can be complacent after we have done our best to work together to fix our broken parts. For now there is no rest for the weary. 

As children we are taught to be truthful. As we grow older we realize that some of our adult icons have lied to us. Our first realization of dishonesty is always difficult to accept, especially if we have really tried to be entirely open in our own lives. 

We’ve all heard the story of George Washington confessing to chopping down a cherry tree as a child. Whether or not that is little more than a myth is uncertain and we don’t really know that Washington was always truthful, but it does appear that people trusted him. That alone makes us think that he must have been mostly free of lies and deceit. So too did Abraham Lincoln somehow earn the moniker of “Honest Abe,” leading us to also believe that he was a man who had earned the confidence of the people who knew him. 

I’m not so sure that anyone has lived through decades without telling a fib here and there. As children we all have those moments of attempting to cover up our incidents of bad behavior with bold excuses that border on lies. Who hasn’t found themselves complimenting a cook over a dish that wasn’t actually tasty at all just to spare feelings? The little white lies creep into our habits because it sometimes seems better to spare someone’s feelings than to voice what we are really thinking. Those lies seem not to hurt anyone so we justify them with slight prevarications.

Of course there are truly hurtful lies that eat at the fabric of families and societies. The person who steals from a company multiplies the untruths over and over and over to keep from being caught. The adulterer breaks the sacred vows of marriage. Lies destroy trust and create cynicism and fear. 

I have been fortunate to be surrounded during my life by mostly honest people. There was, however, a priest at my high school who hid the fact that he was sexually abusing one of the girls, so it might be said that his whole life was a lie. Someone stole all of my valuable jewelry one time, my checking account got hacked, and a student took my wallet, but those are the most egregious things that have happened to me. As a young adult I watched President Nixon’s reputation unravel as evidence pointed to the coverup that he engineered after the break-in at the Watergate. 

Perhaps my parents kept worries from me, but that was simply an omission motivated by love. If either of them was hiding some egregious act I have never uncovered it. I believe that they were both well-intentioned people who did their best to be honest and forthright. They modeled the behavior that I would adopt as a child and carry into my adulthood. What you see with me is very much who I am. I am a person with nothing to hide. 

My mother and my teachers and my church impressed me with their lessons about honesty, so it’s difficult for me to understand someone who lies continually. I know such persons exist. I have met them among my students. I have wondered if they had not been taught to be truthful like I was or if they were simply imitating the conduct that they from the members of their family. Either way it made me sad to see that those so young were already on a dangerous road. 

Nowadays we are cautious about who we believe because there are so many lies circulating around us. We are realists, but we get caught again and again in shocking revelations about people we once admired. Oddly our cynicism about the shortage of truth in our society makes us more likely to believe that everything is fake. We become confused and manipulated. Lies gum up the works and turn us against each other just like my mom often warned. 

Truth, like love, always wins. Somehow the lies, exaggerations and stealthy behaviors are usually outed. It’s best to choose truth, even if it is painful. We may not want to know the imperfections of the people that we love or the ugly aspects of the history of our world, but we are better off getting such things into the light than hiding them in the shadows. Honesty is a first step to rebuilding trust and I can’t think of anything we need more right now. Sadly we live in an era filled with so many hoaxes that it is often difficult to know what is true and what is false. We should not have to be detectives and researchers to know the difference. If truthfulness became more of a norm we would have more confidence in what we hear.

Truth is beauty and beauty is truth. It begins or not, in the arms of parents. It continues with our teachers and our neighbors. If that trust is broken and then accepted as the way things are our society breaks down. It’s time we all worked hard to show our young ones the importance of being honest and the pitfalls of lying. Praise the truth tellers and reveal the liars for what they are. Most of all be the models of truth that our children need.  

A work colleague lost his son last summer. The young man with an inviting smile and twinkling eyes was murdered in a road rage incident after a family outing to a baseball game. The tragedy has profoundly affected the boy’s father who very openly admits to a level of grief that is beyond trite condolences and assurances that one day he may realize the purpose of such a thing happening. Many of his friends and acquaintances and even some strangers have read his posts and struggled to know what to say or how to feel in such a circumstance. The bereaved father is not looking for help. He has a professional therapist for that. Instead he is simply expressing the agony of a shattered life. 

Recently he admitted that he was not ready to forgive the man who shot his son. The murderer has yet to utter a word of remorse. Instead the bereaved father asked us to describe forgiveness. He wanted to know if any of us would be inclined to forgive someone who had committed such a heinous crime. 

I think that the concept of forgiveness is far too complex and personal to describe in a generalized way. As with much of our experience we tend to over simplify issues. We want quick answers. My friend has found that in reality such a quick fix is impossible to find. So too do I think that we literally have to be the person who has been hurt to fully understand the level of loss, betrayal, violence that often surrounds the question of forgiveness. There is also the issue of whether or not the perpetrators of such acts have a semblance of regret. 

I think that the most powerful moments in the life of Jesus of Nazareth came when he was betrayed by a friend, tried for a crime he did not commit, sentenced to die, and then nailed to a cross to die an agonizing death. There were two other men hanging on crosses of their own on either side of him. One of them admitted his sins and expressed his regret for having committed them. Jesus forgave him, but Jesus did not turn to the other fellow and offer the same absolution. What this teaches us is that pardon is earned by truthful sorrow and penance. I don’t think the message could be any clearer. 

There is also the issue of mental culpability. We know that some people act out of severe mental illness. In the same way humans sometimes do not act to protect or save someone out of ignorance or simply because they are not paying attention. On that same day that he was dying Jesus uttered a collective kind of mercy for his executioners saying, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” 

I Googled the word forgiveness and this is what I found, “Psychologists generally define forgiveness as a conscious, deliberate decision to release feelings of resentment toward a person who has harmed you…Forgiveness doesn’t not mean forgetting, nor does it mean condoning or excusing offenses.”

For me forgiveness would depend on the degree of hurtfulness that someone inflicted on me. A hurtful comment would be easy to pardon. A lifetime of degradation from someone would not only be too vile to condone but would also demand a total break from the toxic relationship. I don’t think that anyone should be expected to forgive the malicious taking of a life, particularly if the perpetrator is unwilling to express sincere contrition. 

I do believe in the possibility of redemption but it is not always easy to know if the repentance is sincere or simply a ruse. Whatever the situation, I don’t think that it has to be up to the victim of extreme abuse or violence to make the first move and be the better person who offers an olive branch. I think it is really okay to hold contempt for the person who gassed hundreds of Jews, the man who hung an innocent man from a tree, the person who humiliated and beat his wife. If God gazes into an individual heart and finds enough remorse to forgive them, then so be it, but the victims of such heinous experiences should not be held accountable for forgiveness. It is only natural to feel no mercy for someone who has destroyed a life. 

My grandson was an actor when he was in high school. He once performed the role of Dennis Shepard, father of Matthew Shepard who was brutally murdered for being gay. At the sentencing of one of the killers Mr. Shepard asked the judge to spare the life of the convicted murderer in a stunning speech that sums up the agony of losing a child to violence. He did not however express a willingness to forgive.

“Every time that you wake up in that prison cell, remember that you had the opportunity and the ability to sort your actions that night. Every time that you see your cellmate, remember that you had a choice, and now you are living that choice. You robbed me of something very precious, and I will never forgive you for that, Mr. McKinney. I give you life in the memory of one who no longer lives.”

Somehow I think this says it all about forgiveness. This is what I would tell my friend.

When my grandson became a member of his high school band I often attended his school’s football games, mostly to watch the musical performances at halftime. When I was a high school student I was addicted to the football competitions and found ways to attend most of them even though I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. Those Friday nights were always fun whether or not our team was a contender for a championship season. 

I attended a private Catholic school, Mt. Carmel, so we rarely played any publics schools, but there were enough parochial schools to provide us with a full schedule. In the Houston area alone our rivals were Jesuit, Marion, St. Pius and the biggest of them all, St. Thomas. The games were grudge matches in which we attempt to demonstrate our bonafides and they sometimes challenged my allegiances because so many of my beloved cousins were student in the opposition schools. In truth, on Friday nights nothing mattered more to me than winning so I had no trouble justifying my disloyalty to my cousins. I only wanted to witness the glory of my school and my classmates who fought for its reputation. 

Mt. Carmel had a fabulous drill team that included a drum and bugle corps along with twirlers and a marching group that performed difficult precision routines. They wore sharp military style uniforms in our school colors of brown and white. They were an extraordinary group that often stole the show from the athletes, adding to the attraction of the games. 

There was usually a parent who would agree to transport some of us to the games when we were still freshmen, and once my classmates began obtaining their driver’s licenses they took turns borrowing the family car to take us to enjoy the Friday night lights. Somehow I managed to hitch my way to the happenings and they were always so much fun. They were an integral part of my youth as much as learning and attending church were.

I had wanted to join the drill team and had spent years practicing my tricks with a baton, but I lost my nerve when it came to the tryouts. I was skinny, flat chested with baby fine hair that would not hold the bouffant hair styles that were so popular back then. I felt gawky and embarrassed by my childlike body so I backed out of showing my twirling skills which were actually quite substantial. Instead I made up a number of excuses for why I suddenly was not interested in being one of the Cadets. 

In retrospect I know how silly I was, but at the time things worked out well nonetheless. I went to virtually every football game and I had the freedom to walk around and just have a fun and memorable time with my friends. When I became a senior the drum major of the Cadets asked me to be their official voice during performances. I got to go the press box and describe the music and movements of their routines which in some ways was more my cup of tea than prancing about on the field. 

My male classmates on the football team were awesome, but St. Thomas always seemed to stand in their way of experiencing a perfect winning year. That team was a force of nature and my cousins who went to school there would often tease me about going to a school that could not defeat them. One of those cousins would eventually become a star player for St. Thomas continuing the dominance of that school on the gridiron long after I had graduated and moved on to college. I sometimes found myself cheering for him with the rest of the family and always felt a tiny bit of guilt which I resolved by never rooting against my alma mater.

Despite my family connections I was ever loyal to my own team. I believed in the Beach Boy creed to be true to my school. I’d intensely watch every play and rejoiced with each inch of ground that moved the guys closer to the end zone. Id say Hail Marys for the quarterback and the kicker. I’d lose my voice yelling with both glee and disappointment. Those were glorious times. 

Later, as a mom, I would spend many years watching the football games of my daughters’ high school. I sat each week with a group of parents who became dear friends. Our children were athletes, members of the drill team and cheerleaders. The stands were packed with fans, mostly in the student sections. I found as much joy in my new role as I had as a student. 

What confounded me when I went to watch my grandson and his band is how few students came to the games. The stands were filled with members of the band, the girls on the dance team and parents. The number of students watching the game without affiliated to a particular group was minimal compared to my own experiences. I was surprised with the obvious lack of interest and I wondered how that had come to be. I noted that it was not just my grandson’s school that appeared to lack student spirit, but also the opposing sides. I wondered why those gridiron competition had grown out of fashion with student spectators. 

I would not trade my memories of those Friday night duels for anything. I viewed my male classmates who played in the game as heroes. I thought that the girls who marched at halftime were glorious. I felt so much joy and delight on those evenings that it created energy for me to study and learn during the school week. Those really were the days. 

In a postscript I ended up marrying a student from St. Thomas. He still boasts about the state championships that his team won. I let him brag because I know I would do so if the tables were turned. I also found out that my former rivals from that school were actually rather nice fellows, not the brutes that I once thought them to be. It seems that we all had great fun on those Friday nights and it was wonderful.  

I’ve always been drawn to intensely cold days. Perhaps it is because there are so few of them where I live. A frigid day is a kind of novelty that allows me to use my fireplace and cuddle under a blanket while I write my blogs or read my books. My cup of Earl Grey tea seems to taste better when there is a chill in the air. I find myself appreciating the shelter that my home provides more than I usually do. Wintery days provide a kind of diversion from the warm humid season that seems to last for most of the year in my part of the world. Probability being what it is tells me to treasure and enjoy moments when the temperature drops into the low thirties. 

I suppose that if it snowed for weeks on end, leaving me continually isolated, I might begin to feel a bit like Jack Torrance in The Shining, but that never really happens. The colder days of January and February instead make me friskier and more alert. I revel in the way I feel. Those months tend to be boring and seem never ending unless they are improved by a nice winter freeze. It’s even better if a bit of snow accompanies the moment.

I suppose that my love of the cold may have come from a time just after my father died. It was November and the days were growing shorter with a hint of winter putting a chill on our house. My mother was unsure of how to light the pilot for the furnace so she bundled us up at night under quilts that my Grandma Minnie had made. She told us stories about how she and her siblings had stayed warm during the winter in her childhood home. There was no central heat there, only a single gas heater that warmed the central part of the home, but not the bedroom she shared with her sisters. They would huddle under a pile of blankets and hug each other to get even more warmth from their body heat. She’d smile as she remembered how close they were and how they took care of each other. 

We finally got the heater working when our next door neighbor came over one evening to help. He laid down on the floor and showed my mom how to safely light the flame that would start the system and deliver heat to the entire house. That was the very moment when I began to believe that our strange little fatherless family was going to be alright. In a kind of Pavlovian way I have always felt comforted by the arrival of winter and the first stirrings of warmth from the heating system. I associate it with kindness and good fortune. I makes me appreciate the most simple aspects of my life. Winterlike weather is kind of a dog whistle that brings happiness to me. 

On the other hand I know that I have a kind of psychological aversion to the beginning of summer because it traditionally arrives on Labor Day when my father died. It’s rather bizarre how we humans make connections with certain dates on the calendar or places or even music. Our brains automatically affect our feelings even when we don’t realize what is happening. It took me a long time to understand why I prefer the cold over the sunny days of summer. Once I realized the why of my preferences I learned to once again enjoy both ends of the seasonal spectrums. I no longer fear the summer the way I once did, but it is still my least favorite season because I really don’t like being hot and sweaty.

My daughters both lived in cold climates for a time. They have told me how fun it initially was to have snow and get all bundled up before going outside. Over time they grew weary of the short days that became dark by four in the afternoon. They said that the snow became an ugly gooey mess as the months wore on. When April came and it was still chilly outside they longed for the spring weather that came in the middle of March in the south. They were more than happy to put their heavy coats and snow shovels away when they came back to Texas. 

I suspect that folks from northern climes long for sunny beaches and blue skies while I wish for a lovely white carpet of snow on the ground. While I worry about hurricanes from June to November they spend the winter months wondering when a blizzard may come to ruin their plans. We travel to cabins in the mountain in January and they go on cruises to the Caribbean. 

Not everyone who lives around me likes the cold. I’m often in the minority when going into rapture over the few days each year that we get a small taste of what it would be like to have bonafide winters. They prefer the temperance of seventy degree weeks when the flowers still bloom and even the most delicate plants thrive without any extra attention. Not even the fun of wearing their boots or drinking hot cocoa will convince them to give a thumbs up for winter. I suppose it’s like many of the proverbial questions that divide us into different ways of thinking. 

It was already warming up a bit as January came to a close, but tradition tells me that February will give me one more shot at the kind of chilly days that I so love. Wintery days in Houston are like Christmas to me. They come and go quickly, but deliver so much comfort and joy while they are here.