Month: July 2023

It’s been a while since I worked in a school even as I continue to teach. I suspect that I am somewhat out of touch with the realities and problems that today’s educators face. Now I only hear commentaries from those still fully involved with the profession of spreading knowledge. I listen to the complaints of parents whose children are still in school. I read articles and editorials outlining the difficulties that have arisen inside classrooms. I am an outsider looking in to a place where I once spent more hours each day than I did in my home where most of my time involved sleeping. Still, I feel a pull and tug, a strong connection to the teachers and students and parents who once were the focus of my daily work. 

I was at a gathering of women who were concerned about their children’s well-being at school. They spoke of the difficult times that their young ones had endured in the past few years. They told glowing stories of teachers who heroically attempted to hold things together even as they seemed to be falling apart. They were not angry with the public school system or its administrators. Their target was only the time and treasure lost during the pandemic caused by a tiny virus that decimated so much of what we had come to expect from the world. 

These women spoke of the fear that Covid invoked among their children. They understood and even applauded all of the efforts that educators made to keep their sons and daughters safe as well as still progressing in their learning. They all agreed that it was not the fault of teachers that the kids had fallen behind, become sad and unable to develop social skills. It was simply the cataclysmic impact of uncertainty and death on a worldwide scale that had affected their offspring. Even after almost four years since the sickness and death became the center of attention across the globe, it’s lasting legacy has been a generation of youngsters whose milestones were often unmet. 

The women spoke in awe of teachers who went out of their way to keep the engines of education moving forward. They understood that those efforts were herculian and more often than not under appreciated. Each of them had personal stories of dedicated teachers who were heroes during the most difficult times. They wondered how and why schools and those who work in them had most recently become targets for criticism rather than praise. They complained that those making the most noise, fielding the most ridiculous charges against the work of our nation’s teachers, were setting the political agenda. It worries them to think that the reality of dedication and honest concern for the well being of the nation’s children demonstrated in public schools has become a political cudgel that ignores the the truth. 

Our children and our teachers feel unsafe and misunderstood. We hear accusations of incompetence hurled at our educators and suggestions that our young cannot even read or write or do simple calculations. There are factions ready to tear down our schools to serve the beliefs of small segments of the population. Politicians want to drain funding, determine what can and cannot be taught, bring religious beliefs into the daily routines. At the same time the powers that be oversimplify the horrors of school shootings by suggesting that schools become fortresses guarded by armed adults rather than open and free environments of joy. 

We have been remiss in accepting the psychological effects of the last chaotic years on our institutions and most especially in our children. The key is not to rant about test scores or to revise curricula but to take time to understand how deeply affected everyone has been by suffering, loss, isolation, anxiety. This should be a moment to praise those who valiantly carried on, including the teachers and their students rather than to suggest that they failed an important test of their mettle. There should be opportunities for openness and inclusion rather than focusing on a single way of living and believing. We are missing a grand opportunity to heal while we quibble incessantly over issues. 

I have often noted that our children watch us and learn from how we behave in particular situations. In my essays I have recalled the impact that my parents and grandparents had on me. I have pointed to aunts, uncles, neighbors, teachers, famous people who molded my character, often without ever realizing how much they had influenced me. All of us know that what we see around us leaves a mark on who we become. Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask ourselves what we might do to demonstrate character to our young rather than to think that marching in curricular tandem is the route we must take? We are not even certain at this point what the problems are much less how to solve them. We would do well to pause the demolition of our schools and focus instead on how to build on the foundations that already exist. We might begin by acknowledging how hard our teachers have been working and how earnest the majority our youngest citizens really are.

My heart still belongs inside those classrooms. I know first hand how teachers made me a better person. I understand the blood, sweat and tears associated with being a dedicated teacher. I have observed the earnest efforts of both teachers and students to make themselves and the world better. It is long past time for us all to step forward and ask how we might help to carry some of the heavy load of our educational system. We might start by acknowledging the worth of our teachers and students and showing them the respect they have earned.  

It’s a banner season for travel. After a couple of years of staying close to home due to the pandemic airports are swarming with passengers in spite of the high cost of flying. Europe is overrun with visitors. People are on the move hoping to forget the difficulties that have engulfed so many of us. Nonetheless, underneath all of the joyful return to freedom and normalcy there is still an undercurrent of anxiety, sadness and sometimes even anger that feels palpable. It is as though we have simply reached another phase of coping with the effects of the virus and the non stop political rancor. Somehow we sense that full healing will not occur unless and until we find ways to make peace with one another, a goal that seems hopelessly unattainable in the present atmosphere on a worldwide level. 

I’ve long been an old soul who spends much of my time observing people. Virtually everyone that I know has been impacted in some way by the upheaval of the virus and the ways in which we humans responded to it. In the meantime our differences seemed only to create ever larger divisions between us as evidenced by ongoing wars in different parts of the world and mass shootings in places that were once safe havens for learning and worship and fun. Groups across the globe are taking advantage of our difficulties rather than closing ranks in a spirit of unity to carry us past the hurt of the past three years. While we quibble our young are reporting epidemic levels of melancholy and anxiety. Just attending school has become a kind of horror for them as they grapple with social skills, catching up on learning and wondering if the bang of a door signals their imminent death. 

Our teachers are exhausted with many of our best educators opting out of the profession at least for a time. They feel unsupported by a society that is questioning their every utterance and that prefers that they lock themselves into fortresses at work rather than addressing the issue of having more guns in more hands than anywhere else on earth. They are worried about how their lessons will be perceived by a public that is quick to accuse them of infecting the minds of children. These same teachers who juggled their time and their energy to keep students learning during the worst weeks and months of the pandemic are feeling betrayed by politicians who seem intent on dismantling the public school system rather than supporting and improving it. 

We have legitimate problems that are taking a back seat to silly issues that are of little to no importance. Their only reason for even discussing them is mostly for garnering attention to turn us against each other. They are being used as political cudgels to stoke our fears and our anger. They are aimed at minorities and vulnerable groups while issues like climate change are set aside at the very time when rivers are drying up, fires are burning and winds are destroying lives. We have no unified plans to prepare for the future. Instead we see far too many of those who should be uniting us instead quibbling and throwing shade and insults like bullies. Once beautiful relationships have been impacted because of an unwillingness to see and hear and understand each other. 

Most of us are still reeling from loneliness and loss during the last three years. Some are still unable to join us in our attempts to become normal again. I suspect that all of us dream of a time when when will once again be engaged in fellowship. It’s more important than ever for each of us to check on those who appear to be struggling to readjust because it does not seem likely that many of our political leaders are willing to take the time to be concerned about each person’s needs. We can send a clear message to those who make laws that it is important for the moment that we rebuild our trust with one another, not haggle over debts that must be paid, or infringe on the rights of even those that we do not understand. 

I have lived through years of tumult before, times when we disagreed mightily with one another. I have witnessed the horrors of prejudice against races and lifestyles and people from certain places. Watching a return to such practices is as disheartening to me as it is to our youngest citizens. Calling those who want to make our lives more equitable “communists” is an old trope that oversimplifies the intentions of those who are concerned with the neediest among us. We should be tearing down walls instead of building them. We should be joining hands in compromise rather than getting nothing done. Our current state of anger is hurting real people and is setting our nation back in its forward progress. 

Perhaps it has always been inevitable that we would reach this point in time. We managed to put a bandaid on a few of our national and world problems and then ignored the reality that there was still much to be done. We have been unwilling for some time now to address pressing issues. Our neglect has filled our national house with situations that are toxic to us all leaving us in a state of ill health both literally and figuratively. 

I’ve been writing about the cadence of my life for weeks now. In thinking back on my journey I have realized how fortunate I have been and how often I have settled into a kind of laziness and indifference toward those not nearly as lucky as I have been. I know from experience how much we have neglected the mentally ill. I am certain that we have not always supported our educational systems as much as we should have. I have seen our reluctance to address the violence in our country with solutions beyond platitudes and prayers. I have watched in horror as I continue to see prejudices leveled against so many of our citizens by those in the highest offices of our land. I have watched young people working incredibly hard to live the American dream without support for their efforts. I have watched our great scientific community being ridiculed by uneducated blather. I have been saddened by unravelling of the generosity of spirit after 9/11 and during hurricane Harvey that has all too often been replaced with a selfish competition for money and favors. 

My experience nonetheless tells me to remain optimistic. We have been in difficult times before and we have found our way back to a cooperative spirit in the name of all people, not just some tribalistic base of like minded beliefs. We have the power to bring change but it will require some heavy lifting and sacrifice. It’s long past time for doing what we know is right and just. 

I highly recommend the new book by Dan Rather, What Unites Us! It is the memoir of a gifted journalist who grew up in my own hometown of Houston and then went on to report on world events. Through his own story he highlights the American characteristics that promote the best of our nation. It is a reminder of what is so good about we the people. It’s all still there. We just have to bring forward once again. I do believe that we will.

On December 20, 1973, I checked into Methodist Hospital to give birth to my second child. It was a far better experience that the first time around. The labor nurse stayed with me the entire time rather than leaving me alone in a darkened room to wonder if I had been forgotten. My doctor also came by frequently to check on my progress and when the baby turned and threatened to come out breach, he quickly repaired the problem. By early afternoon I had delivered our second daughter, a lovely child that we named Catherine Anne. I was in my hospital room watching The Electric Company and holding my sweet girl within minutes. She was calm and delightful which no doubt pointed to my experience with caring for a baby. I was not the least bit anxious about being a mother the second time around. 

The number one song of that week was The Most Beautiful Girl by Charlie Rich and somehow it seemed quite fitting for the child who would round out our family. She was quite adorable with her head of curly hair, button nose and almond shaped eyes. Luckily the two of us were home before Christmas Eve so that we could celebrate our good fortune with Maryellen who was a bit confused by her new sibling at first. Eventually she had settled into the idea of sharing our attention and almost immediately became a great big sister. 

It turns out that I had no worries at all about the change in our family dynamics. Catherine was sweet from the beginning. She would sleep for many hours and when she did awake she would alert us with a soft little cry. She began slumbering all night long within less than a month and she seemed to be content no matter the situation. She was delightful addition to our family.

As 1974, dawned we felt quite content and complete. We settled into a lovely routine but soon enough felt that we had outgrown our apartment. It was time to look for a home with a yard and trees and good neighbors. It was my friend Linda who found the place for us. The house had been built about twenty years earlier but it was in pristine condition. The owners had raised two daughters there which somehow made us feel that we were destined to live there. The price was right as well. At nineteen thousand dollars it was a bargain given the huge yard and its location close to so many of our favorite places including Mike’s job. 

The owners seemed especially excited to hand over the house they had so loved to a young couple that saw so much potential in it. We signed the deal and were soon placing our belongings in the rooms and meeting the neighbors who would become like family to us in the ensuing years. 

On one side was the Hall family, a clan of five boys with parents Carol and Bob joyfully and skillfully in charge. On the other side was the blended Turner family composed of five children, mostly female, save for one son. Betty and Dave Turner headed that group and would literally become our counselors and protectors over time. I saw instantly that we had come to a very good place where my children might enjoy the same kind of glorious childhood that was mine growing up in Overbrook. 

We settled in quickly and soon enough met other families like the Washburns whose youngest girl, Traci, was almost the same age as Catherine. Either our house or our yard always seemed to be filled with youngsters running and laughing. It felt downright idyllic. 

Once again time began to accelerate. My brother Michael graduated from Rice University and found himself recruited for some amazing jobs, but one stood out more than the other. When Boeing, a contractor for NASA, presented him with an opportunity to work with the space program he knew immediately where his future must be. While working there he met Becky, also an engineer and their love bloomed quickly. Soon it was apparent that I would finally have a sister as they planned their wedding. 

Pat had graduated from high school in the meantime and announced that he wanted to enter the Houston Fire Academy to train to be a firefighter. Mama worried that he was too young to make such a decision, so she asked him to earn a college degree first. He agreed and headed to the University of Houston. 

Maryellen entered first grade with less than glowing comments from her kinder teacher. Her new teacher sensed that Maryellen was much brighter than she had seemed to be and kept advancing her to higher and higher reading groups while noting that the child appeared to have some difficulty hearing. A visit to the school nurse and and quick hearing test confirmed that Maryellen was indeed having auditory problems. After taking her to a specialist she underwent surgery and as we drove home from the hospital her eyes grew wide as she exclaimed, “What is all that noise?” Once again a first grade teacher had saved a child.  

There have been moments in my life that passed so quickly that I recall few details of them. Mostly those intervals have been free of tragedies or major challenges. Thus it was during the early nineteen seventies. The shocking deaths of my young cousin, Sandra, and my equally young Uncle Andrew had reminded me too much of the fragility of life. In a sense I went underground after they were gone, focused on my little family with every drop of my energy. 

Mike was doing well at the bank and our days were blessedly quiet and uneventful, a welcome change to the previous couple of years. The national news was filled with stories of Nixon’s reelection and hints of a strange break-in at the Watergate Hotel in Washington D. C. Mike and I had been among the decidedly small number of people who voted for George McGovern in 1972, when I was finally old enough to vote in a presidential race. I still have the campaign buttons from McGovern who ran one of the most disastrous campaigns of all time. His anti-war position, lack of charisma and fumbling mistakes led to his downfall even as Nixon and his minions worried about what the Democrats might be planning. The bungled attempted burglary at the Watergate would soon become one of the biggest political stories of the time. 

The trial of the Watergate burglars began in January of 1973. After many weeks of testimony there were still nagging questions about what had really happened and who had been responsible for the fiasco. In May of the same year Congressional hearings began with television coverage that became a nightly viewing routine for me and Mike. As fledgling voters and history buffs we became mesmerized by the members of the committee chaired by Sam Ervin, a Democrat, and assisted by ranking Republican, Howard Baker. The purpose of the gathering was to investigate “illegal, improper or unethical conduct” occurring during the 1972 presidential election. It was a real time thriller that stunned the two of us and the nation as well as key figures testified about dirty tricks that we had never before imagined. In many ways the hearings became a coming of age moment for the two of us. 

We had moved to a newer and more modern apartment around this time. I had grown weary of climbing stairs with Maryellen’s stroller and other gear. The new place was downstairs centered on a lovely courtyard away from the noise of busy streets. The rooms were larger and the amenities more conducive to family living. It would be in this place that I encountered women quite unlike any I had known before and I would learn so much from them. They were practical down to earth unpretentious souls who might best be described as the salt of the earth. 

We were all staying home with our small children so we shared our common role with gatherings each day while we watched our little ones ride their tricycles or run in the grassy area that stretched in front of our apartments. The women came from places like White Plains, New York and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania that had heretofore only been dots on a map to me. They had profound common sense and the kind of homegrown knowledge that had belonged to my grandmother Minnie Bell. I spent most of the time just listening to them, learning from them, becoming a better person because of them. It was a glorious time of growth for me and best of all everyone in my family was finally doing well. The lull in tragedies or challenges helped me to focus on becoming a more fully defined woman.

I had always felt awkward and unsure of myself but this band of women taught me how to hold my head high. They showed me how to be confident in just being me. Debbie and Rosie and Diane would only be in my life for a brief moment in time before they moved, but their impact on me would be forever. In fact, I vividly remember the very day when I looked in the mirror at my image and smiled because I liked the person that I saw in that reflection. Somehow I felt a certainty for the first time that I had a purpose that was important. I saw the direction of my life laid out before me and I was no longer making decisions based on how I thought others wanted me to be. It was a gloriously freeing time. 

Linda, my friend from high school and college, and I often got together with our children. She had a son named Scott who was a beautiful blonde headed boy with a sweet personality. He had Maryellen got along magnificently. I would learn much from Linda as well. Then there was Cappy who had married one of Mike’s good friends and my cousins in law, the two Susans. My calendar was filled with visits and outings. I even reunited with my childhood friend, Lynda, who also had a son who loved playing with Maryellen.

When spring came in 1973, I learned that I was once again pregnant. I looked forward to having another child with my new found confidence. I shared my joy with the ladies who lived near me and with my family and long time friends. Life was full for me and my family. Mama enjoyed her job at the University of Texas Health Science Center and had regained her confidence and optimism. Michael was doing well at Rice University and Pat was moving steadily through high school making dozens of friends with his characteristic charisma. The veil of sadness that had seemed to cover me for so long was suddenly lifted and I reveled in the feelings of joy. When I turned twenty five that year I was finally myself, a woman unafraid to speak my mind and follow my own dreams. 

I had already experienced many life changing events when my beautiful daughter, Maryellen, was born. None of them felt equal to the impact of being a mother. I suddenly viewed the world and my future from a totally different perspective. I had felt responsible for my brothers after our father died. When my mother became ill I instinctively believed that I must be responsible for her care. I was devoted to Mike and dreamed of graduating and beginning a career. All of those things paled next the wonder of raising a child. It felt as though I had been given one of the greatest blessings ever granted to a woman and I wanted more that anything to be as awesome a mother as my own Mama had always been. 

I had fallen totally in love with my little girl. I was exhausted from lack of sleep as I adjusted to  to Maryellens’s schedule. Some nights I was barely able to drag myself from the bed when I heard her tiny cries. Once I was awake and snuggling with her in my arms I learned to love those nighttime moments when it felt as though we were the only two people on the earth. She was a cuddly and pleasant baby who did not seem to mind the inexperienced mistakes that I made as a new mother. The two of us stumbled along together as she more and more became the focus of both me and Mike. Her future was now more important to us than our own. 

Mike continued with his studies at college but I had decided to suspend my education for a time. I needed to learn how to care for a child and I was still checking on my mother as often as possible to be certain that she was well. Maryellen and I met many of our neighbors in the small apartment project where we lived whenever I took her out on the lawn to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine. I walked around the neighborhood pushing her in her stroller. The older people who lived there always smiled and waved as we passed them on our daily journey. Life was slow and happy, mostly without incident which felt good given the challenges of the recent past. 

Mike had grown close to two of his fellow teaching assistants, Egon and Marita. Egon was a brilliant student from Germany who almost instantly became like a brother to Mike. Marita was from Chicago and a graduate of St. Thomas University. The three of them were a trio in the Sociology Department of the University of Houston. Over time they would also come to visit with me and Maryellen. They were both taken by our beautiful daughter and it soon became apparent that they were taken by each other as well.

Christmas Eve at Grandma Ulrich’s house was quite special as Mike and I showed off our five month old daughter. She was the center of attention as my aunts and uncles and cousins played with her. The family was growing. Alan and Susan had a two year old daughter named Carla. My cousin Jack had married a Susan of his own and the two of them brought their one year old daughter, Shelley, to the festivities. My cousin, Sandra, who was sixteen like my brother, Pat, had bloomed into a beautiful and poised young woman. I found myself thinking of how proud her father, my Uncle Bob, would have been of her. Obviously Aunt Claudia beamed as everyone marveled at Sandra’s loveliness. The party was a magnificent celebration of the  incredible family that had supported me and my brothers and my mother in the dozen years since my father had died.  

As nineteen seventy one dawned Mike was beginning to question his plan to become a college professor. He did not enjoy the interchange of teaching like I did. Furthermore, he was eager to be a provider for his growing family. An opportunity to work at one of Houston’s largest downtown banks part time convinced him that it was time to get more serious about life. When his boss offered him a full time position, he jumped at the change and suddenly his destiny changed. 

Ironically his buddies Egon and Marita had come to similar conclusions about how to spend the rest of their lives. They had fallen in love and were ready to settle down more permanently, so they too found work and abandoned the idea of being professors of Sociology. Instead they began to speak of marriage and the possibilities of having a family of their own. No doubt each of us was anxious to settle down as the fate of the nation continued to feel so chaotic with the War in Vietnam seeming to be unending and protests against the conflict becoming more and more dangerous with students being killed at Kent State University. The outside world felt unhinged and it seemed important to find happiness and stability wherever possible. 

Mike’s salary was good enough to allow us to move to an apartment with two bedrooms instead of only one. It would be nice to give Maryellen room to play while we had our privacy again. With the help of my brothers we simply carted our belongings across the parking lot and enjoyed arranging them in our larger space. Somehow this little move made us feel as though we were making progress as adults. I celebrated my twenty first birthday and felt as though I had officially crossed into adulthood even though I had already had so many adult experiences. 

Shockingly tragedy struck our family once again when we learned that Sandra had died. She had appeared to be in the peak of health when she was suddenly stricken while at school. Doctors found that she had an aneurysm that had been probably been in her brain from the time of her birth. After a brief stay in the hospital she succumbed to her condition. We were all devastated beyond any description that words might convey. She was only sixteen, two months younger than my brother, Pat. She was the daughter of my favorite uncle, my father’s best friend who had died so young. I grieved intensely for my Aunt Claudia because I now understand the intensity of love that a mother has for her child. It made me ever more protective of my own sweet Maryellen. 

When summer came we celebrated Maryellen’s first birthday with friends and family. As we all sang happily to the little girl who had brought so much joy into our lives I silently felt grateful that my mother was doing so well. It had been two years since her bout with mental illness and I had actually come to believe that she was indeed cured of her depression. She was enjoying her job and seeming more and more like herself. Mike was doing well at the bank and my brothers were advancing into their own adulthood. 

Just as I was lulled into believing that perhaps only blue skies were ahead my Uncle Andrew died. He was still a very young man in his forties when he suffered a massive heart attack on his way to set up a business selling historic coins. I worried that my mother would lose the momentum of her recovery from depression, but somehow she handled his death as well as anyone. She would often relate the moment when she told my Grandma Ulrich that her son was gone. Mama said that a single tear rolled down my grandmother’s cheek, an image that I have never forgotten. It was especially poignant to me now that I had a child of my own. Somehow I felt my grandmother’s pain and understood her just a bit more than I ever had. I was now firmly ensconced in the role of being a mother.