Month: May 2022

Growing up is often a painful process both physically and mentally. I was the quintessential late bloomer which was compounded by the fact that my parents enrolled me in first grade a year earlier than what is generally deemed as normal. I was a tiny little girl who had held her own with confidence until I was suddenly sent off to school with little warning just after my youngest brother was born. I was unable to feel as confident as I always had in the loving bubble of my family. As a five year old sitting in a classroom with kids who were mostly a full year older than I was, I felt terrified. By age I should have been in kindergarten, but my parents mistook my pluck at home for enough maturity to fake it with a group of peers who’d had an extra year to prepare for the shock of beginning the educational journey in earnest. 

While I quickly proved my academic mettle, I was not ready to be with my six year old classmates. I still looked more like a preschooler than someone with enough moxie to blend easily with my new set of peers. My personality quickly changed from chatty and outgoing to shy and reserved as I attempted to find my place in my new environment. If not for my incredibly kind teacher and a sweet girl who took me under her wing I might become irrevocably withdrawn. Instead I was feeling much better about the situation by the time I had completed my first school year. Being able to read and spell words and do math was wonderful.

I might have been well on my way to a return to my more natural bubbly self but for my parents deciding to move, which meant starting second grade in a brand new school. To make matters worse, my name was not on any roster when my mother and I arrived on the first day. After a great deal of brokering on my mother’s part an administrator accompanied me to a classroom and confronted the teacher with the news that she would have an additional student. Unfortunately, an argument ensued in front of me that dampened my spirit for the rest of the academic year. The beleaguered teacher insisted that she did not want me to join her already overcrowded group of students. While the two adults argued I began to feel smaller and smaller. I wanted nothing more than to just run away. 

The administrator got her way and I quietly became more withdrawn as I endured one of the most miserable years of my young life. The teacher made little effort to hide her resentment toward me with little insults about me all year long in spite of my efforts to please her. Nonetheless, I made a number of friends who have stuck by me since that time. The joy of knowing them made the unbearable more bearable. 

Things might have continued in an upward trend had my father not decided to move us all again only weeks after I began third grade. We embarked on an adventure that took us all the way to California where my father’s failed dreams kept us moving four more times before the end of my third year of school. By then I was shell shocked from having to continually adjust to new environments, new schools, new teachers, new classmates. I reached the point of not even bothering to get to know anyone and became less and less congenial. When my daddy died at the end of that year I felt so devastated and wary that my true outgoing talkative personality seemed to die with him. 

My fourth grade teacher did little to help me because she was literally as mean as a skunk. Somehow I carried on by throwing myself into studying and then having fun at home in my neighborhood and on weekends with my dozens of cousins. I advanced from one grade to another from the same house in the same neighborhood. The routine was my saving grace. I felt secure in the repetitiveness of putting down roots in a place where the people around me were kind and helpful. I began to heal. 

I might have regained my confidence totally but for the fact that I did not grow. I began high school with a mind that was equal to my classmates, but the body of a child rather than a teen. I would be heading for my junior year before I began the process of changing physically and psychologically. My physical development was two years behind and that fact caused me to feel even more uncomfortable and less certain about who I was. I struggled to relate to my peers who were dating and becoming visibly more mature. I hid my unease with jokes and an even greater attention to growing academically which I had the power to control.

By the time I graduated from high school at the age of seventeen I had finally developed as I should have and I was armed with a great education that gave great promise for my future. I loved my friends and would keep them for the rest of my life. I could hardly wait to launch my college career and then move on to being an adult. My growing pains were gone and I was excited about going to a new environment in which I might demonstrate the more outgoing personality that I had hidden away for so long. 

I did not go far from home for college. Moving out of town and staying in a dorm was economically out of the question, but my city had several excellent universities. I purposely chose the largest of them all because I felt that it was time for me the emerge from the bubble that had nurtured me after my father’s death. I met the challenges of being in a large public institution with eagerness because finally the course of my life was being driven by my own desires rather than fate. I was able to choose my major, select my classes and my professors. It was such a freeing experience and along the way I knew that I was rapidly becoming the person that I had always wanted to be. 

In the second semester of my freshman year I met my husband to be. Our relationship was special from our very first date. Somehow I knew that I had met my soulmate because I had no trouble just being myself whenever I was around him. He boosted my confidence even more than it had already become. When he asked me to marry him when I was only nineteen years old I did not hesitate to accept his proposal. The world was on fire with war, assassinations, and unrest so it seemed imperative to grab happiness when I found it. 

The rest of my story is one of feeling good in my own skin. I learned to really like myself and when that happened I was able to shift my concerns to the people around me. My focus was on making them feel good as well. All in all things worked out thanks to the wisdom of my mother in providing me with security and love. The friends that I met in my youth have sustained me for decades along with new people who widened my horizons and enriched my experiences. I became a teacher who understood the angst of being a student. I taught my kids with love. I understood the value of people and relationships because of my own struggles. With my life partner I created an adventure that has been filled with rich experiences. I am a survivor of my own misgivings and in an odd kind of way I believe that even my most difficult challenges helped to make me a better person that I might otherwise have been. I learned how to adapt and ride the wave life’s storms. I took a bit longer to bloom than most but when I finally did it was beautiful and I think I appreciated it even more.

When I was younger many of my elders influenced my outlooks on life. My mother taught me the art of loving unconditionally. My father demonstrated the joy of constantly learning. My paternal grandfather helped me to hone my optimism. My paternal grandmother showed me that education does not only come in a classroom or a book. My maternal grandmother’s life helped me understand that sometimes risk taking and courage are found in ordinary ways. My mother-in-law introduced me to philosophies that had once been foreign to me. My first grade teacher inspired me to realize that teaching is about reaching both hearts and minds. My high school English teacher introduced me to the world. An aunt showed me what it truly means to be a woman. The principals for whom I worked guided me to mastery of the art of teachings. 

Now when people ask who influences me, I turn to the younger generation. My children, former students and grandchildren are helping me to see the world from a different perspective. I hear their earnest concerns for the future and I realize that they are attuned to the kind of progress that we must have if humanity is to survive the onslaughts that history and science tell us are bound to come. Unlike many people in my age group who are tired and just want to be left alone, they have many adventures ahead of them. They have hopes and dreams that have yet to unfold. Their visionary thinking and their energy inspire me just as the adults who guided me once did. 

They are not the self centered spoiled generation that some believe them to be. What I see are hard working, thinking people who love this country and our earth. They understand the many challenges that our world faces now and in the future and they have ideas for solutions that will benefit us all. Mostly I see a kindness in their thinking that is extended generously to people without judgement. They critique systems and situations not to cause trouble, but to prevent it in the future. They are more well versed in science and mathematics and history than I was at the same ages. They are willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to improve life not just for themselves or their families or our country, but for the world over. Listening to them relate their philosophies and ideas convinces me that the future may have some bumps, but ultimately it will be very bright. 

From the beginning of time the older folk have had a tendency to doubt the younger ones. Literature is replete with admonitions that society is failing because the next generation does not have what it takes to be contributing adults. I have found that premise to be generally false and I think that we would do well to hear and respect what our young people have to say. Sometimes they have a better conception of what we need to do as a society. As we age we often become complacent and long for the old days rather than meeting problems head on with innovative ideas. Save for Ben Franklin and George Washington, most of the founders of our nation were rather young. People like James Madison understood the pitfalls of the nation they had crafted and warned that there might be chinks in the plan. 

The youth of the world are like the boy who was willing to point out that the emperor parading down the street had no clothes. Instead of insulting teens and those younger than forty when they make suggestions that are almost as revolutionary as the ones that Jefferson and others enacted at our nation’s birth, we should take their thoughts into serious consideration. Sometimes they have seen the future better than we have. 

When my grandson outlines the problems and solutions associated with climate change I listen because predictions that he made eight years ago are coming to fruition as though he was a prophet. When my students tell me about gun violence that they have experienced and make suggestions about how to curb it, I am impressed with how well they have thought through their ideas. When my granddaughter outlines her dream to study the law and work to bring our fractured party system back to a willingness to work together, I believe that it is possible because I have seen her leadership abilities in action. 

I am greatly influenced by what I hear young people saying and by what I witness them doing. They are kinder and more inclusive than older generations. They have honest discussion with each other without showmanship or motive other than working through problems. They are unafraid of change and look to the future with optimism. It’s time we showed them more respect than we have of late. 

Many of the greatest achievements in history have come from very young people. There is no metric of age that should determine the worth of an individual’s ideas. We would all do well to begin conversations with those younger than we are without designing rebuttals even before they speak. They have open minds and we should as well. They are my new heroes. I learn something from them every single day and my admiration for them only rises as I realize how thoughtful and committed they are to making a better world. I rest easily at night knowing that even if we don’t allow them to take on positions of influence right now, one day they will be in charge. 

When I read about the life of Jesus in the Bible I am always struck by the stories that present him as the ultimate rebel against absurd rules, biases against certain people, and the love of money. More than once he crossed the religious leaders of his time when they insisted that it was wrong to perform a life saving miracle on the Sabbath or to fraternize with certain groups of people. One of the few times that he demonstrated unedited anger was when he overturned the tables of the money changers in the Temple. He definitely gave us very clear guidance about how we should conduct ourselves, but for some reason we seem to have a difficult time accepting his ideas. Of course we have to take care of ourselves and our families, which means that we need a means of earning money, the capital for obtaining our most basic needs, but if we really think about it how much of the green stuff do we really need?

I don’t sit around longing for the good old days because I like the idea of progress. Nevertheless, I remember a time when people seemed to lead much simpler lives. Homes were smaller even though there were usually more children in them. Families were lucky to have one car, one television, one bathroom. Air conditioning was a luxury and spending time outside with neighbors was a thing. A vacation meant driving to a nearby town for a few days, eating peanut butter sandwiches along the way. Teens worked all summer long and sometimes after school to help the family or to save money for college. Food was basic and consumed around a table in a nightly gathering. Gifts were from the heart, little gestures of love. 

Of course there were problems that we seemed to ignore as long as our own needs were met. We drove past the segregated areas of town without thinking that much about what it must have been like for the people subjected to the demeaning behaviors and neglect from the rest of society. We paid little attention to those who went bankrupt paying for medical care and we rarely gave a second thought to children who went hungry. We just did not talk about such things. We acted as though such things did not exist as long as they did not directly impact us. 

Times have really changed since I was a child. We thought we had come to grips with the underlying racism when the Congress passed legislation meant to guarantee civil and voting rights. We made sure that both the elderly and the very poor had access to doctors with Medicare and Medicaid. We integrated our neighborhoods and our schools while the wheels of industry provided us with seemingly better and better lifestyles. Our homes grew bigger and we filled them with possessions that would have stunned our grandparents. We worked harder and for more hours of the day to stay apace with those competing with us for all of the goodies. We ate together as a family less and less often. We closed our doors and and windows and diminished our contact with our neighbors. We had more cars than space to store them in our garages. Our vacations were elaborate and we took regularly. We counted our money more often than we considered our blessings or the needs of those that we began to understand less and less, sometimes even being brash enough to believe that they must be lazy if they were unable to make it in our wonderful world. 

I’m as guilty of these trends as anyone. I rocked along oblivious to the waste, the destruction of our planet, the neglect of the less fortunate. I was elated to enjoy luxuries that were unimaginable in my youth. Instead of really appreciating the money that I had, I wanted more and more just to be certain that I would be comfortable for all of my life. I took so much for granted even as my grandchildren warned me that so the glut of consumption was slowly killing our planet. I witnessed the poverty and of some my students as they earnestly explained to me how hard their parents were working just to stay afloat. I did not understand how the undercurrent of racism still existed even though some of my colleagues at work assured me that it was alive and well. Because my own life was good I missed all of the cues of the suffering that was growing around me. 

Then came the reckoning for me. Because of the pandemic the pace of my life slowed down to a crawl. I had more time to open my eyes to what was really happening to people far away from my own lifestyle. I saw that my habits had become destructive to the planet. I realized that as a nation we had become more selfish and less concerned with those who struggle to enjoy the same level of justice and wealth that I take for granted. I was stunned by what I finally saw even though people had attempted to open my eyes to these things for decades. Money and things became less and less important to me. People and freedom and integrity seemed more valuable. I felt humbled. 

There is certainly nothing wrong with working hard and becoming successful. Having a nice home is not a sign of selfishness. We can take trips and enjoy life without wearing hair shirts and beating ourselves. but it’s important that we never lose sight of the reality that we owe it to our fellow humans and our planet to make sensible sacrifices to insure that we are not wasting while others are starving for basic needs or simple respect. We have to constantly consider just how much we really need and how much we should share. The pursuit of money and goods cannot not be our ultimate goal. Nor should we be so busy increasing our bounty that we lose sight of problems that we should be addressing. 

I may be a bit late in realizing these basic truths but I have an opportunity to begin anew. I want to live the rest of my life with others in mind. I want to be willing to sacrifice, speak up and vote in ways that honor and save lives as well as the earth around me. I am more than ready to sacrifice to follow those lessons that Jesus taught us. One does not have to be religious to understand how important they are. He gave us the guidebook. Now it’s time to actually follow it and continually ask ourselves, “How much do I really need?” 

When I was a child Saturdays were the best part of the week. My brothers and I would wake up without an alarm clock to watch the children’s programing on television while our mother slept later than usual. We’d lounge around in our pajamas enjoying our kid world until she awoke and it was time to do our weekly chores. Once we had completed all of our tasks and our home was in perfect order again, we would dress up to go out shopping at one of the malls or in downtown Houston. 

Shopping was a major event for us even though we rarely purchased anything of great expense. We were bound by a tight budget, so most of what we did was gaze into the shop windows or peruse the aisles to see what the latest fashions and products happened to be. We clutched the fifty cents that our mother gave us as a reward for our hard work in hopes of finding something great to purchase with our funds. When nothing appealed to us, we saved our income for another day. In our minds the hunt for something wonderful was more fun than the actual purchase. 

When I left home to start my own life, my mother often dropped by to see if I wanted to join her in the Saturday ritual. I almost always went along with her because I liked the idea of just the two of us spending time together. I rarely purchased anything but when I did, my mother would chide me if I did not find a sale or the best possible price. She was alway very careful with her spending and she encouraged me to be the same. 

In my mother’s final years I reserved Friday afternoons and evenings for her. I went to her house immediately after work and let her decide what we would do. Invariably our excursion included an early dinner before the crowds came followed by shopping somewhere. We often ended up at the Macy’s in the mall near her home or walking the aisles of the local Walmart. Now and again we just went to a grocery store so that she might get provisions for the following week. 

My mama so enjoyed shopping that she would literally walk up and down every single aisle examining items and studying the prices to find the best deals. She often purchased good buys to set aside for future gifting. In fact, she had a designated closet filled with unique items that would one day become presents for one of her children or grandchildren. 

Those Friday nights often extended to almost midnight if we were in a store that stayed open twenty-four hours. I found myself wondering where she got her energy because I had awakened early and spent a long day at work before venturing forth on our shopping trips. I learned that she took a nap on Friday afternoons in preparation for our outing. Thus her energy on those nights seemed superhuman.

Mama lived with me and my husband in her final year of life. In the beginning of that sojourn she still wanted to go out and about on Friday nights, but in the last six months her interest in shopping waned. Even when she forced herself to come along with me on my errands she became quite tired within a few minutes and asked to return home. 

I found myself missing our time together just browsing merchandise. Those were the moments when we had profound conversations and when my mother became so relaxed that her optimistic spirit came to life. She delighted in the walking and the talking and always congratulated herself on her purchasing acumen. I told her that she should write a book on how to live happily on a very small budget. That always made her smile.

After my mother died I lost interest in the kind of window shopping that she and I had always done. I tried doing it alone and there was no joy in wandering around without the conversation and laughter that I had shared with her. I almost felt lost and out of place just searching for the best of the sales like the two of us used to do. Neither of my daughters liked to shop, so I was left alone to attempt to recreate moments that were no more. 

Now I am most likely to make all but my purchases online. Shopping is no longer the joy for me that it once was. There is something empty about doing it alone inside a store when I can sit in the comfort of my home and find what I need with a few clicks on the keyboard of my computer. The packages come straight to my door and it’s easy to return anything that does not work out well. Little wonder that malls are dying everywhere because I sense that many others have turned away from the idea of shopping as entertainment just as I have. 

When my mother died, there were items in the room where she had stayed that were wrapped and labeled for members of the family. She had somehow stealthily purchased a retirement gift for me and had it ready to present at the party that never took place because it coincided with her death. She had found, among other things, a tea towel festooned with sunflowers and bumble bees that pronounced, “Life is a Garden. Live it!” Somehow she had captured the very idea that I needed to adopt in my new reality without my work and without her. It hangs proudly in my kitchen reminding me of our wonderful times not really shopping, but simply enjoying each other’s company. I miss those special times and probably always will. 

Shame is a tactic that has been used to control human behavior for thousands of years. The theory is that making someone feel guilty about their misdeeds is a powerful method for changing their behavior. We often confuse the concepts of shame and punishment and think of them as being one and the same. In our efforts to modify bad actions we too often attempt to shame individuals into submission to our rules rather than keeping actions and feelings separate. 

As a teacher I constantly encountered situations in which students had made bad choices, some of them resulting in harm to others. I had a duty to craft an appropriate consequence for the infractions, but drowning them in shame was never one of the tools that I used. In fact, I always let the offenders know that I condemned what they had done, but not them. I made certain that they understood that it was because I cared for them that I made them perform an appropriate penance. I also used that moment to talk with them about how they might have reacted differently when tempted to do something wrong. 

I have felt disappointed and even anger with the actions of the people around me, but never have I felt ashamed. To me there is a very distinct difference between being guilty of doing something wrong, and being a guilty person. I have been taught from the time that I was a child that we have rules and traditions and ways of treating each other for a reason, and that wavering from them will result in consequences, but doing wrong should not be a reason for destroying a person’s soul. 

I have made mistakes for which I have almost always paid a price. I have felt great sorrow and disappointment in myself. I have expressed my contrition for my misdeeds and then hoped that I might be forgiven. The hardest part has been forgiving myself, and sometimes in spite of my attempts to mend the rifts that I made, I have lost very special relationships. I did not need for anyone to shame me, because I had already done a very good job of harboring my guilt without compassion for myself. 

I have also been hurt greatly by other people. The wounds I received were emotional rather than physical. I have had to make a clean break with individuals and situations that were toxic, but I did not feel ashamed of the people and situations as much as a sense of disappointment and a realization that our human imperfections run deeply in each of us. Keeping our dark sides at bay must be a continuous resolution because even a tiny slip has the potential to bring irreparable pain and suffering. 

I come from a good family, and that includes the most extended reaches of the tree from which I was shaped. Every single one of us has had moments of regret when we did or said something that went against the lessons we were taught. Within the vast web of relations there have been mostly ordinary souls doing their best to be good people from one day to the next. Sometimes someone falters and becomes an addict, or hurts with words, or even abandons the family. While I may deplore what they are doing, I continue to love them and believe that if they were to return to the embrace of our family I would love them just as the father welcomed his prodigal son. 

Every family has its black sheep. The behavior of such souls may confound us and even make us wary of them, but shaming has never been a constructive method for rehabilitating them. I often think of a story that my mother-in-law told me one Sunday while the two of us sipped on steaming cups of tea. She related how one of her uncles was a raging alcoholic who seemed incapable of overcoming his addiction. Many a night he would wander to a corner bar and drink himself into oblivion. Often his sister, my mother-in-law’s mother, would have go searching for him when he did not return home. There were times when she found him lying in a ditch so drunk that he could not move. She would climb into the murky water and lovingly help him into the back seat of her car to take him home. 

This kind woman did not condone her brother’s behavior nor did she allow his condition to go untreated, but when she spoke of her brother she did so with compassion, respect and love. She did not feel ashamed of him so much as feel concern for him. The image of this beautiful and saintly woman helping her brother without feeling that somehow he had shamed the family has had a profound effect on how I react to fallen souls. 

Of course some things are so egregious that our only choice as a society is to lock such monsters away. There are cold blooded killers among us. Sometimes they rise to powerful positions wherein they can use their murderous tendencies to control entire populations These kind of people are of a different sort altogether. They are sociopaths or psychopaths. I would not have kind feelings toward them nor would I feel any pressure to forgive them for what they have done. That is the domain of God. Nonetheless I would see no point in shaming them, because I don’t believe that it would do any good whatsoever. Such people are empty souls entirely unable to feel a sense of connection to others. Just locking them away and throwing away the key seems to be the most humane thing we might do with them. 

Shame is a form of humiliation, an indignity that mercilessly strips a person down to the bone. It demoralizes rather than rehabilitates and in some cases it has no effect at all. Nonetheless we use it all the time in a kind of vindictive response to our own sense of hurt. There is way too much of that sort of thing happening in the world today. Perhaps we should focus instead on the idea of reconciliation when dealing with both our own mistakes and those of others. When we provide people, especially the young, with opportunities to pay for their infractions with sincere efforts to demonstrate intent to change, we offer them a means of rejoining our circle without being forever reminded of what was bad about them. Shaming creates broken souls. Avoid it at all costs.