Month: February 2023

The human body fascinates me. I’m not interested in knowing all of the technical terms related to our anatomies, but reading about how our many parts work or don’t work is like unraveling a great mystery. In particular I am fascinated with our brains. I gobble up articles about new findings regarding the ways that our minds determine so much of who we ultimately become. There is a delicate balance between heredity/DNA, physical processes, and the psychology garnered from our environment. The activity inside our brains holds the key to understanding how and why there are such differences between one individual and another on multiple levels of human activity. 

Truth be told, I have always been fascinated by studies of psychology and neurology. I believe that many of the keys to why we are often so different in our habits and our beliefs might be found in the workings of our brains. Many of the habits that we attribute to good or bad behaviors may instead be the work of activity inside our brains over which we have little control. Sadly, we have been slow to attempt to learn about the incredible happenings inside our brains out of superstitions and fears that learning about how this magnificent processing unit in our bodies works may somehow be akin to playing god. 

It has only been since the beginning of the twentieth century that earnest detective work has been done by pioneering doctors and scientists intent on learning as much about the brain as we now know about the other organs that regulate our lives. We are far behind where we might have been if studies had taken place earlier, because in the past the taboos associated with unlocking the hidden workings of how we think and feel were seemingly too personal to dare to study. Now we know better.

With modern day imaging and a century of devoted research we are learning more and more all the time about the things our brains do and what sometimes makes them feel broken. While we do understand the importance of individual environments on each of us, there are still questions about what causes mental disorders and how they can be corrected  much like we mend hearts and treat cancers. 

I recently read a most interesting piece about obesity. It pointed out that societies have often shamed those who are overweight. We tend to believe that those who eat too much are simply lazy and glutenous sloths. We point to thin people as examples of having enough resolve to push away from the table and take the time to exercise regularly. We praise our lower weight people for showing us to live the best life. Instead there is evidence that they are simply the lucky possessors for brains that effectively monitor their eating. Those of us who are not continuously hungry do not understand that there are indeed conditions caused by a brain dysfunctions that make some people painfully hungry all of the time. It is as though the on/off switch in their brains that should be telling them that they are full does not work. 

Researchers are more and more agreeing on the hypothesis that it is a malfunction of the brain that is causing many people to want to eat all of the time. Studies are showing that such behavior begins in childhood because in reality the brain is not properly sending the signals that monitor the intake of food. Over time psychological issues surrounding eating also take hold. That person who can’t seem to stop gorging on food may indeed feel hunger pangs even after the stomach is full. 

I have known overweight people who have confessed that they never stop thinking about food. All day, every day, they feel as though they are starving and no matter how much they eat, the pains do not go away. Their situation is not so much a matter of developing will power as longing for that signal from the brain that the need for food has been sated. Researchers now believe that it is indeed a real physical problem emanating from their brains. The discovery and the fix have come in the form of drugs that were developed to help diabetics curb their appetites in order to maintain a healthy blood sugar level.    

We’ve no doubt heard of friends or family members who have struggled with weight for most of their lives injecting themselves with such drugs and almost miraculously losing the extra pounds. What is actually happening is that the medications send them the message that they are full. The desire for huge amounts of food goes away. They physical sensation that they have not shared with the rest of us is suddenly present. While this drug is not for everyone it is pointing scientists and doctors toward new insights

This phenomenon has told researchers that there is indeed a physical malady that causes some people to eat too much and become obese. They note that most women will recall being more hungry than usual while pregnant because the brain is telling them that they need to feed the fetuses that they are carrying. So too do most of us have a regulator in our brains that help us to control our eating. The very thin person may even have more of an urge to push away from the table than others. In truth obesity appears to be caused by a misfiring of the brain that is supposed to tell us that our stomachs are full. 

There is still much to learn. Our brains remain a somewhat mysterious frontier whose landscape is only minimally understood. Fortunately the work to learn more is well underway. Just as we once dreamed of leaving the gravity of this earth and flying into the sky, so too do we now understand that entering the realm of the brain may one day eliminate some of the diseases of the mind. That will indeed be a giant step for mankind. 

When I first retired I often spent Friday mornings in my local Barnes and Noble. I arrived there early so that I might nab a chair inside the Starbucks area. I preferred a comfortable wingback seat located next to an electric outlet and a table. I’d order a hot chai tea latte and a cinnamon scone, open my laptop and work on my writing. 

It was a heavenly experience to be surrounded by books and fellow silent companions who were reading or studying or creating. It became a routine for me until my husband also retired. I had not gone there early in the morning for many years until recently. In fact, because of Covid I had not been inside the store for at least three years at any time of day. I was not surprised to learn that a few things had changed, but essentially the feeling that I had in being there at the beginning of the day felt the same.

I arrived a bit too soon because the store no longer opens as early as it once did. I might have just returned home, but I decided to wait in my car playing games on my phone until a young woman unlocked the doors. Since there was not a crowd vying for seats like there once was I easily reserved my favorite chair, I ordered my venti chai tea latte, but there were no cinnamon scones so I settled for a bagel. Instead of working on my laptop I decided just to savor my return by observing the store and the people inside. 

I have to admit to getting the warmest of feelings and thinking that it might be fun to reprise my old habit of visiting there on Fridays. I loved the vibe of those who wandered up and down the aisles in search of treasures. For the most part the place felt just the same as always, a refuge of creativity and learning, a repository of wonder. It was comforting to be there without any goal other than to relax. 

I have been feeling a bit anxious in that last couple of years. I’m certain that I am not alone in worrying about the state of the world and its people. We’ve all been through a rough time that created losses of people and jobs and a feeling of security. We watched a huge divide open up in politics, religious beliefs and attitudes about vaccines, science, learning, schools, police, immigration, sexuality, different races. The constant disagreements along with countless mass shootings and the rise of violence and depression in our midst has been exhausting. For someone like me whose nature is to be the diplomat who attempts to bring people together it has been a time of difficult change. Somehow I was moved to speak out for the causes that seemed most important. I felt that silence was dangerous. In the process I opened a Pandora’s box of differing reactions to the advocate I had become.

Just sitting silently in the serenity of the bookstore was like a tonic for my soul. It gave me an opportunity to meditate in the midst of some of the most brilliant thinking of humankind as chronicled in the trove of books that surrounded me. I felt the honesty and ideas of the authors who were so willing to fix their thoughts into the written word. It comforted me to think of them. 

I had been impressed with Michelle Obama’s newest book and I wanted one of my daughters to enjoy the experience of reading it as well, so I finally surrendered my chair and wandered through the rows of books in search of a copy for her. Luckily it was featured on one of the tables in the main aisle. I grabbed a copy but continued my slow walk through the stacks of books and magazines and quirky pens and cards and games. I somehow felt that surely this must be a close approximation to heaven on earth. I was in my element. I was with my people.

I don’t think a month’s worth of therapy sessions with a counselor would have served me as well as my foray back into Barnes and Noble. In that stunning atmosphere I was able to consider my place in the world and what is most important to me. I remembered how reading and learning has always served as a panacea for all of my worries and woes. I am admittedly and proudly bookish. I no longer worry that my admission might classify me as a nerd. In fact I am sometimes a bit too boastful about who I am and how much I enjoy reading just about anything. 

I suppose that I am very much my father’s daughter. His idea of fun was visiting a library or bookstore. I cut my teeth on accompanying him to his favorite repositories. I feel his spirit every single time I am in such a place. I suppose that I need to go back more often. Maybe I don’t need to do it every single week, but now and again an early morning trip to Barnes and Noble might be just what I need to rearrange my thoughts and realize that we humans have been dealing with problems and conflict for centuries. Somehow the good seems to always find a way to solve the problems we face. The way forward is all there in the stories and histories. 

My paternal grandfather died a year before I was born. All that I really know about him is that he was born in the Slovakian area of Austria-Hungary in 1881 in the village of Cachtice. He came to the United States in 1912, worked at a series of jobs in different parts of Texas and became a naturalized citizen in 1917. Eventually he settled down in Houston, Texas in a home off of Navigation that he paid for room by room. He worked at Houston Meat Packing as a  laborer  and eventually a butcher. By the time he had reached his sixties he had raised eight children and had plans to one day retire and farm land that he had purchased in Richmond, Texas. 

According to all of his children my grandfather was an avid reader and an advocate for education. He lectured his children on the greatness of the United States and taught them to make the most of opportunities in our country. He was a hardworking man who was proud that he owned a home and land and even a cow. He was happy that all of his children were better educated than he was. He knew that his family had been victimized by prejudice, but he urged everyone to ignore the taunts and walk with their heads held high. 

According to one of my aunts, my grandfather was in downtown Houston one day when he found himself in need of a bathroom, but nobody would allow him to use the facilities in their places of business. Out of necessity he found an alleyway between two buildings and attempted to shelter himself while he took care of his problem. A police officer came by and saw him standing in the shadows with his back turned and made the assumption that he was up to no good. He came from behind and beat my grandfather on the head with his baton. 

Realizing that my grandfather was not doing anything that deserved of the beating, the police officer told him to go home and then abruptly left. Grandpa found a bus and headed to his house. At first it appeared that he only had a headache but within a few days he had a major stroke that left him unable to care for himself. My aunts and uncles had to send him away for medical help. Not long after he died with the cause of death being officially list as a cerebral hemorrhage. 

I’ve often thought of him whenever I have heard of cases of police brutality that lead to the death of an individual. I have found myself feeling the pain of loss that the families of such individuals must surely undergo. My grandfather was still in his early sixties and seemingly had more years of life ahead. I would have liked to have met him and talked with him. It would have been wonderful to see him enjoying his farm after his years of hard work. All of that was taken away from his family on the day that the police officer jumped to conclusions and hit my grandfather before determining what he was actually doing. I suspect that if he had simply asked or even just observed Grandpa for a bit he might have seen that everything was innocent. Instead he chose to immediately become aggressive. There was no reason to hit Grandpa the way he did. 

We see so much of that kind of thin these days. It bothers me that our police officers are not better trained, better screened for violent emotional proclivities. All too often they are acting first and thinking second. It’s one thing to react quickly if someone is shooting or being violent. Becoming aggressive over drinking or use of drugs or mental illness is too often the wrong response. The punishment should always fit the crime. If someone tries to use a phony twenty dollar bill it is wrong but hardly worthy of death. If someone looks suspicious because he is wearing a hoodie it should not lead to death.

I remember a day when I was stopped by a police officer on my way back home from visiting my daughter. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was feeling quite happy. I still could not tell you if I was speeding or not. I was literally just keeping up with the traffic. Suddenly there was a police car behind me indicating that I needed to move from the road. I remember being shocked and quite nervous as I complied. 

When the policeman walked up to my window my heart was beating a bit faster than usual. I rolled down my window and smelled and wished him a good day. His face remained stern as he barked that I had been speeding. I apologized immediately and he told me it was too late. He asked for my driver’s license and insurance card. 

By then his demeanor had caused me to shake. I had to grope around to find my purse and then dig into it to find my wallet and my license. The officer eyed me suspiciously and became even more addled when I reached over to the glove compartment and had to search in there for the license. He was quite angry with me by the time I provided him with the information he desired. I sensed that my nervous chatting was bothering him but for some reason I did not get quiet. He made me feel more uncomfortable than I ever had before in the presence of a law enforcement officer. I began to silently wonder what such a situation might feel like for a younger person of color. 

When the ordeal was finally over I was barely able to drive. It was miles before I felt comfortable again. Such was the power that the officer had over me. I knew that whatever I had done was minimal because there had actually been cars rushing past me shortly before I was stopped. The anger of the police office felt misdirected and as such it frightened me. When I think of it I can imagine how some stops get out of hand and lead to violence that need not have happened.

By contrast I have been stopped on other occasions for a broken tail light or such and the officers were kind, smiling, letting me know that they were concerned about me. We talked and laughed and I felt safe and comfortable with them. Such people prove to me that there should be different ways of treating less serious situations. When a policeman sends the message that he is angry the whole tenor of the incident changes and causes reactions that are not helpful. Fright can cause us to behave differently than we might otherwise have done.

It is time that we look at how we enforce laws and provide training that is appropriate for lesser violations versus those that require split second reactions in very unsafe situations. I understand how difficult the job of law enforcement is, but our policing can and should be better. Too many have died unnecessarily. Even those in law enforcement agree that reform is long overdue.

For many years I would pick up my mother after work on Fridays and take her out to eat and then shopping wherever she wished to go. Because of her bipolar disorder I never knew how she would be feeling when I arrived at her home to whisk her away for our evening together. If I drove into her driveway and saw her waiting on her front porch with a million dollar smile on her face I immediately knew that she was doing well. If I had to knock on her door to remind her of our engagement I worried that she would be either sad and depressed or overly animated and manic. Most of the time she was just fine and our Fridays together were quite wonderful.

There is no doubt that Mama’s favorite place to dine was Cracker Barrel. In fact eating there became a kind of ritual for us. Mama tended to continue to follow the old Catholic tradition of eating fish on Fridays, so the catfish dinner was most likely going to be her choice while I usually preferred the vegetable plate. We’d talk and laugh and tarry over our meal, not wanting to rush the moment of being together and enjoying the kind of food that my grandmother used to prepare for us. 

Mama really enjoyed shopping in the front of the restaurant as well. She moved slowly around every display, usually working her way to the area where the sale items were featured. There she often selected articles marked down to rock bottom prices. I knew that her purchases would eventually end up as gifts for birthdays or Christmas for some lucky member of the family. Then she always purchased candy sticks that sold for twenty or thirty cents each. She was so elated that she seemed to be the quintessential kid in a candy store. 

I think of those Friday evenings all of the time. I miss them. I rarely go anywhere on a Friday evening because my husband prefers doing things on Saturdays and Sundays. I sit around the house and remember how much fun I had with my mother, mostly because of her innocent delight in having a plate of fried fish or buying five candy sticks for only a couple of dollars. I loved hearing her detail all of the things she had done during the week and hearing her philosophical questions. Nobody that I have ever before or after met has exuded so much joy over the smallest things. 

A week or so ago the wintery Friday was dreary and I found myself channeling my mother in an attempt to brighten my mood. I made myself a cup of tea and savored the taste of Earl Grey feeling thankful that I was in a sturdy house that had been untouched by the tornadoes that had come through our area taking down trees and destroying buildings only days before. I found myself thinking of what a delightfully happy and generous person she was, someone who would give away her last dollar and live on beans until the next payday. Suddenly I had a craving for eating dinner at Cracker Barrel and to my delight my husband thought it was a grand idea as well.

We had not been to our local Cracker Barrel in three years. Not since the pandemic had we ventured over there. Part of me worried that our all time favorite waiter, Ken, would not be there. I had often wondered when I passed by the place if he was okay but I seemed to always be too busy to stop just to find out. So it was with a tiny bit of trepidation that I went inside.

It was a bit early for dinner so not many people were there. We got a table right by the big fire place and began to feel right at home. I was remembering my mom when to my great delight Ken emerged from the kitchen with a big grin on his face. He looked fabulous and both of us jumped from our seats to give him a big hug. He was his usual cheery self and convinced my husband that the fish and shrimp special was wonderful. I stuck with eating from the breakfast menu. 

Ken hovered over us as though we were celebrities in a five star restaurant. He kept our glasses filled and gave us extra biscuits and cornbread. He told us that he was about to celebrate his thirteenth year at Cracker Barrel. He seemed quite proud of his work and we in turn praised his attention to detail and his friendliness that made us feel right at home. Silently I smiled at the thought of how much Ken would have enjoyed my mom since he often spoke lovingly of his own mother. 

We finished our meal and walked around the front of the place where all of the candy and interesting merchandise was displayed. I saw a number of items in the sale section that I am certain my mother would have purchased and set aside for a future give away. I felt happy and fortunate to be in such a place. Mostly I understood the gift of joy that my mother had always shown me how to find. I smiled at the thought of it. 

When I worked for the KIPP Charter schools we all attempted to follow it’s golden rule to work hard and be nice even as we realized that the actual definitions of working hard and being nice were somewhat subjective. The guideline was in reality more personal than a generalization. Some among us worked much harder than others and the same was true of being nice. Our human perceptions derived from the totality of our experiences will vary tremendously even when certain words seem to be very clear in their intent. 

I learned soon enough when I was struggling to fulfill my promise of working hard and being nice that I had to draw a line of self preservation in order to be useful to anyone. There were times when I became exhausted and had to pause for some rest without feeling guilty. There were moments when I had to make difficult decisions with teachers, students and parents that did not feel particularly nice. There were indeed incidents in which the kindest approach was to hold people accountable for their actions lest they believe that bad behaviors were okay. On such occasions there were regularly those who questioned my devotion to being nice. Tough love is never easy. 

I remember having to deal with a student who had stolen from his classmates. He was initially quite cavalier about what he had done, even attempting to create ridiculous stories about “finding” the items lying around and thinking that nobody wanted them. Eventually I learned that he had a treasure trove of stolen goods in his room at home. I had no choice but to insist that we make the penalty for his deeds fit the grievousness of his crimes. 

He was one of my favorite students, a very bright young man who seemed not to realize his enormous talents. He was charismatic and uncannily brilliant in mathematics. His home life was difficult but he very apparently loved his mother and worked to help her with expenses. I suspected that his thievery was intended as a way to make some extra cash for what he believed was a good cause, but it was nonetheless wrong. He saw my disappointment as I spoke to his mother about what he had done. I also witnessed part of the problem when his mom defended him with many weak arguments meant to forgive his actions. 

I suspect that the poor woman thought she was being kind and loving, but I felt that by not holding her son accountable she was teaching him a terrible lesson. True kindness would have been to tell him that it is never right to do bad things even for seemingly good reasons. As it was the boy worried that I hated him because I stood firm regarding his punishment. I had to explain to both him and his mother that I hated what he had done, but I would always love him. Such a concept seemed foreign to them. They were confused that I would hate the sin but not the sinner. To me it was all about truly being nice. 

I recently saw a variation of the KIPP mantra that was Be Strong. Be Kind. I wondered what those words might mean to each individual. They are so generic that they definitely have multiple meanings, particularly the idea of being strong. In today’s world we all too often  equate strength with holding power over others, or pushing ourselves beyond our healthy limits. In truth a strong person knows first and foremost when to say, “No!”

There is so much over which we have little or no control. There are situations in which we should not even consider attempting to control individuals or groups. Understanding that we can’t control every situation is the mark of a truly strong individual. Accepting that we will never please everyone is the definition of true strength. Insisting on self care when things get out of hand is a sign of a healthy mind. As the song tells us, life is a gamble and the strong among us know when to hold the cards and when to fold them. The truth is that we can’t personally fix every single problem nor can anyone else. We have to learn what being strong really means rather than emulating the many posers who seem to believe that strength lies in physical and emotional power over others. 

Some of the strongest people that I have known were also the wisest and the quietest. My friend Sharon Saunders was one of those individuals. She listened and watched and took time to consider what was happening around her and what she might do to help people. Her lack of showmanship and bravado sometimes resulted in a misunderstanding of how magnificently she combined handwork, being nice, kindness and strength all at once. The students and adults who were fortunate enough to learn from her good counsel felt the earth move under their feet as life changed for them. Because Sharon was quite humble about her abilities her miracles were not always as apparent to others as they were to those she had helped. She made her work seem so easy that sometimes people believed that she was not working hard at all. In truth she was totally dedicated to those who came to her for help and they would all eventually attest to the mark she had made on their souls. 

It’s laudable to work hard and be nice. It’s a wonderful idea to be both kind and strong. Nonetheless we have to be careful to truly understand what those kind of words mean. They are not declarations of selfless tolerance of situations or people who demand too much of our love and energy. They are guidelines for doing our best with the resources that we have and knowing when we have done all that we can. They are never about demeaning ourselves or accepting bad behavior. The wise person can walk the fine line of each idea while still being mentally and morally healthy.