Month: November 2023

Last school year my grandson experienced a terror that is plaguing our schools. On what had seemed to be a normal day, a sudden announcement changed everything. The word was that an armed man was on campus. Students and teachers were commanded to go into lockdown mode.

Unfortunately the students were in the middle of a passing period when the notification occurred. They had to scurry quickly to their classes while the teachers took a head count of who was present and who was missing. My grandson had already arrived at his science class so the teacher instructed him and other students to move from the lecture area into the far reaches of the laboratory. Meanwhile she herded any stray students she was able to find into the safety of her protection. Soon the doors to the classroom as well as the door to the lab were locked and the students helped move heavy furniture to shore up the strength of the door. Then they all gathered in a windowless area and sat in silence while wondering what was happening outside. 

My grandson, like most of his classmates, was quietly sending texts to his parents alerting them to what was happening. He told them that he loved them and admitted to being terrified that he might never see them again. It was a tense time when minutes felt like hours. Eventually the danger passed. An announcement proclaimed that it had all been a hoax from a phone call. Later the school would determine that a student who had created the furor would be expelled and arrested for his dangerous prank. 

After the event the students and teachers received updated training. They may no longer hold open doors for others, even if they know that person. Backpacks are now banned. Doors have to be closed and locked except during passing periods. There is an unspoken tension that lurks over the once happy days of being young. Many students are feeling anxious and depressed that their world feels so dangerous. 

It was with a kind of personal interest that I recently read an article in the Washington Post reporting that hundreds of active shooter calls have been made to schools and police departments in literally every state in the nation. Only later do the officials learn that the calls were sent as a hoax. In the most egregious cases the calls are untraceable and often come from someone with the same voice. Technology has allowed this kind of thing to happen more and more often leaving law enforcement frazzled and schools feeling ever more vulnerable. While much work and coordination is being done to determine who is behind these fake emergencies, little progress has been made. In the meantime every one of them has to be taken seriously lest the one that is ignored proves to be the one that is real. 

It breaks my heart to think of the fear that lurks in the back of the minds of everyone involved with our nation’s schools. Students most assuredly are watching for signs of trouble. Teachers are no doubt having nightmares and anxiety attacks as they consider what they should do in the event a real shooting event. Administrators and police want to make our schools safe places where everyone knows that they are protected. Sadly hoax shooter calls only increase the concerns that now stalk our schools. 

I don’t think that the dysfunction of our government is helping. When young people observe that the supposed adults in the room are unwilling to set aside their differences to find solutions to the many problems that we face they become disillusioned and sad. Right now it feels as though we are undergoing a national divorce between two political philosophies that seem unable to do the right thing for the citizens rather than proving points and advocating vindictive retaliation. Honesty and cooperation have taken a back seat to stubborn allegiance to platforms and that will get them reelected. Our nation feels broken and it is our young people who are bearing the brunt of our divisions. 

I have known people who reached a point of no return in their marriages. Divorce was the best way to move forward. In the best of these situations the children were spared the bickering. With great concern for the children the estranged adults were willing to share and compromise. They did not spread vile stories about each other to their children. They encouraged the kids to be happy with both of them but in different settings. The youngsters felt save and loved. They were able to adjust to the new reality.

In the worst cases the parents vie for the affection of the children. They reveal deeply disturbing stories about one another to little ones who can’t quite understand the issues. They force children to choose between the two of them. They plant vile ideas in their minds. Those children are victims. They are harmed psychologically in ways from which they may never recover without intense therapy. This is how I see the political landscape in out country today. This is why our young men and woman have lost faith in us. It is a tragedy of epic proportions because it never had to happen. 

I have said it before and I will continue saying it. Being tribal is destructive. Our government was designed to only function smoothly when opposing points of view found ways to compromise for the good of all, not a particular segment of the populace. The tragic split in our nation during the Civil War pitted brother against brother in the most horrific clash. I fear that we are close to that when we have a presidential candidate swearing retribution and refusing to accept the results of an election. In fact those same people are already setting up a scenario for the next presidential election that will be lose/lose for every American citizen. We have to stop voting for people who stoke anger and violence. We have to become civil again. Our children want us to stop fighting. They want to feel safe again and we have much to do to accomplish that. Think of this before you give someone your vote. It counts more than ever. 

It begins when we refuse to listen to each other, when we no longer make efforts to understand each other. We takes sides, separate into groups, then tribes. If we allow our grievances to simply fester and grow we are soon lobbing deadly rockets at one another either figuratively or literally. We become living representatives of the story of Cain and Abel. Anger and jealousies overcome the rational and kind aspects of our human natures. We turn away from any possibility of seeing each other as individuals and adopt a gang mentality. It becomes us against them. The animal instincts to survive, to carry out our grievances take over our ability to think about the damage we are doing. Only after the worst of our natures wreak destruction and death over innocents do we humans end our warlike behavior and attempt to restore peace and harmony in our world. Sometimes that takes a life time or hundreds of years. 

The anger that is seething in our midst has been in full view of late. On a personal level we witness family and friendships breaking apart over differences in beliefs. Worldwide hatreds are fueling wars. In my own nation I have watched our democratic institutions become paralyzed with partisan battles that are often based on propagandized lies. We were not even able to pause long enough to handle a pandemic with compassion and sacrifice for the needs of the sick and dying. Instead we broke into camps and relied on fear and innuendo to guide us through the difficult times. Our once cooperative spirits were squelched by troublemakers who made our medical communities the enemy. False prophets turned religion into a political football. Dishonest journalists spread lies and propaganda. We ultimately endured and then overcame the worst of the virus, but the battle lines that we drew during our ordeal became more pronounced than ever. Our thinking became rigid, angry and unwilling to consider working together for a common good. 

We humans are in trouble right now. We can’t simply ignore what is happening nor can we continue to act as though we are nameless members of tribal hordes intent on destroying our real or imagined enemies. We are at a stage of seeing peacemakers as weak and those who arouse the rabble to anger as great leaders. To use a very tired phrase the inmates are running the asylum. Strongmen across the globe are inciting riots and war. They are tearing institutions apart and stoking fear and anger. They masquerade as people who care when the reality is that they only seek power for themselves. 

Here in the United States of America we are at a crossroad. We are only inches away from a collapse of our ability to govern in a way that honors each person’s unalienable rights. We have lost the ability to distinguish between those who truly love this country and its people and those who bow to tyrants whose only goal is to seize power and titles for themselves. We are a nation of many races, ethnicities, religious beliefs, sexual orientations, personalities. There should be room for all of us. We should be able to live our lives without fear that one or another group will impede our freedoms. Our government should not be a religious enforcer. We have seen what happens when religious norms for a single group become the rules for all. We should not have to look or act a certain way nor should we hide truths about the history of humankind and our own missteps as a nation. When we live in the darkness of ignorance we only repeat the mistakes of the past. 

If we blindly follow one person, one group or use one media outlet to gather information we are doomed to living inside a circular argument that never sets us free. We must be willing to study different philosophies and ideas. Learning about them does not mean that we must adhere to them. It is instead a way of enlightenment that allows us to cull through the chaff that often hides both the problems and their solutions. It’s not only possible but probable that even a very good and generous leader will have greatness and mistaken flaws at one and the same time. There is no such thing as a perfect human being, but some among us are more honorable than others. 

Might does not always make right. Doing things the way they have always been done is not always the correct pathway. If we humans are to evolve and progress even in tiny increments we must be open to an alliance not with a single group but with the greatest ideas and ideals of human imagination. At the same time we must always bear in mind that some of the things that we fight so hard to dismiss are of very little consequence. Who someone chooses to love should not be of any concern to us. Love is love and we should celebrate it. How a person decides to dress or grow their hair does not hurt anyone. Each woman knows how many children she is able and willing to have. 

We all spill the same blood. Our bodies mostly work the same way. All physical characteristics are superficial. We grow up in our respective homes being taught lessons in how to live. We may be eating different foods, speaking different languages or believing different things. No one way should be deemed better than others. The rich man is not more important than the man who tends his lawn. The child born to a king is no more wonderful than the one who arrives on this earth in poverty. It’s well past time for us to learn from history that categorizing and judging the worth of individuals based on human made criteria is wrong. It’s well past time for learning how to live in harmony, respect and understanding. If we continue down the dangerous path of unquestioned allegiance to any person or belief we will continue to fight among ourselves and people will needlessly suffer. Let’s step out of tribal echo chambers before we mindlessly destroy the good things we have built together. Our grievances begin so innocently but too often they end with war. Let’s stop that before it is too late.    

I am trying to compose myself after viewing photos and videos from mass shootings that were released last week by the Washington Post. I am a visual person who has to see things with my own eyes to fully understand their impact. It was brutally difficult to keep my eyes on the actual horror of what happened to innocents in massacres inside classrooms, synagogues, movie theaters, and outdoor concerts. We can read the words that describe such horrors and never fully feel the impact of terror reeked upon those present in such terrible moments. It’s too easy to quickly move on and pretend that there is nothing we can do to stop the senseless murder that plagues our nation like no other place on earth. It is important that we get a visceral sense of what really happens when a shooter armed with a high powered weapon takes out his anger on people that he does not even know. If such an incident is only a concept rather than a reality it is easier to be content with doing nothing of significance to stop it from happening again. When we actually witness the horror with our own eyes our perspectives are nevermore the same.

I am a gentle soul. I try not to hurt anyone even with my words. Most of us are like that. We cannot fully imagine horrific scenes because it never occurs to us to be intent on reeking violence on anyone. Those of us who think of the injured and their families after a mass shooting sincerely grieve for a time and we even pray for peace and comfort. Nonetheless we are not insistent enough to bring about meaningful legislation and enforcement that will finally bring the changes that we so obviously need. We only feel more and more helpless as we watch the processes of violence and condolence being repeated again and again. Nothing ever changes. 

We will be gathering with friends and family this week to give thanks for our good fortune. The launch of another holiday season will begin. We won’t want to tarnish our happiness with negative thoughts, so little will be mentioned about the problem with gun violence that is all too prevalent in our nation. Few of us feel totally safe anymore and that is not because of any one person who is supposed to be in charge. It is because of our own reluctance to do the kinds of things that we know we must do. It is long past time to control the types of guns that are produced and sold in our country. Arguing that we somehow have a right to weapons that were never intended to be used by private citizens is a specious claim. Allowing them to stay in circulation because there are already too many of them in homes across America is not a good reason to continue to do nothing. We as a nation have to decide whether or not we want to continue living with the continued threat of mass shootings. 

It is time for a national therapy session in which we honestly consider what our obsession with guns has done. Most of us have been touched by mass shootings that were close to home. I live only miles away from a high school where a student took out his warped feelings on classmates and teachers. A former student of mine was forever changed when she attended a concert in Las Vegas where a shooter killed fifty eight people and wounded even more. She still has flashbacks of lying on the ground in a pool of blood while hearing the rat a tat tat tat of bullets. An horrific massacre took place in an elementary school in Uvalde, a place through which we have pulled our trailer on our way to a state park. Most recently my granddaughter was in lockdown for days after a gunman killed sixteen people in a bowling alley only nineteen miles from her college. It feels as though the inevitability of being a victim or knowing a victim is moving closer and closer while we keep turning our backs on the problem after a brief interlude of concern. 

I do not believe that the second amendment was meant to spawn arsenals in the homes of citizens. I cannot imagine that the men who wrote and ratified that addition to our Constitution ever imagined the kind of weapons and bullets that are so easy to purchase in today’s America. I suspect that they would be as horrified as I am that their words have been so distorted that even children are posed with weapons in their hands by parents who seem to think it is cute and patriotic to assert the right to arms with armed family photos. 

I find it vile and alarming to fetishize guns and conflate them with freedom. The message we are sending our children borders on abuse. They are crouching inside schools to practice for potential danger. They are talking with their teachers about what to do if a mass shooter comes to their school. We are spending valuable time and resources installing doors and gates and alarms because we don’t have the courage to actually stop the madness of flooding our homes and our streets with more and more guns. 

The greatest gift we might give ourselves and our children this holiday season is the acknowledgement that it is past time to come together to pass control measures that will work. Other countries have mentally ill people like we do, but they have also legislated mandatory buybacks of the most egregious guns. They stopped the madness while we kept turning our backs on what we know we must do. If we don’t speak out and push for change it will happen again and again. Our thoughts and prayers will sound hollow. Our silence will be lethal. If we love our children we will begin the process of change. 

I try to stay relevant even as I grow older. This month I celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday. Seventy five is one of those numbers that rattles me. It sounds ancient and yet that is not the way I feel. I don’t need diamonds to commemorate my age. I need to know that somehow my contributions to this world are still meaningful. I fight against becoming little more than a silly lady in a red hat who life is mostly a round of entertainment. As long as my body transports me and my mind continues to work I still crave being essential to the daily buzz of life. I am reluctant to let go of my grasp on a purpose driven life. 

I tire more easily than I once did. There was a time when I was able to work twelve hours in my garden without experiencing pains in my body or the urge to take a rest. Now I have had to learn to pace myself in whatever I do. I’m still teaching students very difficult mathematics, but I am only able to stay sharply on task for about four or five hours before feeling compelled to stop. When I work in my house I pause about every thirty minutes to recharge my batteries like my iRobot does when vacuuming my floor. If I thoroughly clean my entire home in a single day I end up with pains in my knees and my back. The signs of slowing down are apparent in my body, but I have a tendency to ignore them and soldier on with the projects that I insist on completing. 

Mostly I am intent on pushing myself to continue learning. I find the act of increasing my store of knowledge to be more exciting than any other task that I do. Thus I registered for a class at the Glasscock School of Continuing Education at Rice University this fall. I tend to prefer topics focusing on the social sciences or current events, so for this term I chose The Philosophy of Ethics. The professor will provide a brief overview of the thinking of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, Aquinas, John Stuart Mill, Immanuel Kant, and Nietzsche. Since I have never taken a formal course in philosophy before it will be quite interesting to learn about these pioneers in thinking who span the human experience from the ancient Greeks to the more modern era. I have little doubt that this course will also lead me to further reading that will keep my mind active for some time to come. 

I must admit that as I approached the seventy fifth milestone of my life I was missing incredible people who were influential in changing the direction of my thinking and ways of approaching the world. I am eternally grateful for the inspiration that I garnered from my father and grandfather. While my dad left this earth all too soon he impressed me with his books and his intellectual curiosity. He is mostly responsible for my love of reading, a personal joy that has provided me with safe harbor even in times of dire distress. My grandfather showed me that we don’t have to become old in spirit simply because we reach a certain age. He continued to thrive and be mentally and physically active until he was one hundred eight years old. 

Then there have been my teachers. Sister Camilla helped me to overcome my tendencies to reverse letters and numbers. In many ways she taught me how to learn. Father Shane is the giant in my erudition who introduced me to the magnificence of the written word in poetry, literature and communication. Father Bernard taught me to look beyond the confines of earth and to gaze into the heavens and the future. Dr. Jones showed me the ways to convey the knowledge that I possess to others. Dr. Durand helped me to become more analytical in my assessments of the practicalities of society. Dr. Boyd demonstrated the threads that stitch our histories together. I have been able to apply their lessons to virtually every aspect of my life in the past and in the present. 

There have been friends who widened my horizon as well. Evenings with Egon and Marita or Pat and Bill were akin to participating in the intellectual soirees of Paris when great minds gathered to discuss art, literature, politics, philosophy. I soaked in all that I heard from them and began to view my life from a wider perspective. They taught me about places and ideas and people that I had never before known. They challenged me to think beyond the narrow confines of the place where I lived. They encouraged me to ask question, to search for facts, to be unafraid to refute or speak my mind. It was safe to reveal my deepest feelings and beliefs when I was with them. It was glorious to feel so free.

Now I find myself finding joy in offering my own knowledge and thoughts to my grandchildren who seem willing to listen to me and fire back their own objections to what I have to say. I have become my grandfather and I genuinely hope that I will be as inspirational to them as he was to me. I get great joy in teaching mathematics as well. When I see a smile on the face of a youngster who suddenly understands how a concept works it is as pleasing and valuable to me as a bag of diamonds would be. 

So here’s to my next phase of life. I do not know where it will lead or who will exit or enter, but surely it will be as wonderful as the previous seventy five have been. My only hope is that it will allow me to continue learning and evolving the way my incredible mentors have helped me to be.  

I remember celebrating my sixteenth birthday and thinking that it was a watershed moment. Somehow the fact that I might legally drive felt like a turning point into the adult world even though I would not actually get a driver’s license until I was in my twenties. My widowed mother was not able to afford car insurance for me and I was not willing to work to fund driving, so I did not rush out to take a driving test like many of my peers. Nonetheless, sixteen simply felt different to me and that thought was reinforce when my mother gave me my first tube of lipstick along with a pencil skirt and a clingy sweater as a gift. Somehow it was her signal to me that I was no longer a little girl. 

Twenty one was another milestone that impacted me mostly because I was finally of legal age to vote. Back in the day we had to wait until we were of twenty one to legally drink and cast our votes. It would not be until nineteen seventy one that eighteen year olds were given the greatest privilege of being a citizen of the United State. The first time I went to the poll it felt like I had arrived as an adult even though long before then I had already become the unofficial caretaker for my mother. 

My fortieth birthday was supposed to be a big deal but it was almost a nonevent for me. Somehow nothing about that age felt any different than being twenty five. I was vibrant and healthy and still looked younger than I actually was, a trait that had followed me from the time I was a little girl. I had a teenage daughter who kept me young with her dancing and music and a preteen who kept my home filled with laughter. I actually felt as though I was just getting started on being an adult. I had a career that I loved, incredible friends, and an extended family that was as close as they come. My life was busy and almost flawlessly happy, so being forty barely phased me. 

When I celebrated my fiftieth birthday I thought I might finally feel that I was turning a corner on my youthfulness. I had a mostly empty nest and grandchildren began arriving, but somehow I simply turned into an energetic Gammy and just kept going at full steam. I earned a master’s degree and qualified for the Master of Mathematics certification that eventually went bust after few were able to pass the test and school districts seemed unable to realize what the designation meant. I just kept breezing forward balancing multiple roles with seeming ease. 

Even at sixty five I still felt like an unstoppable human dynamo. I imagined that few people actually thought of me as a senior citizen. I laughed at my AARP membership card and just kept going even as my life began to change dramatically with hints that maybe I was indeed entering a different phase of my life. Members of my family and beloved friends began to die. I found myself attending more funerals each year than parties. I developed arthritis in both of my knees and sciatica in my left hip. I was no longer able to spend ten nonstop hours working in my garden without paying the price of feeling as though someone had battered my body. Slowly I began to feel my seemingly bottomless pool of energy waning just a bit more with each passing year. Worst of all even strangers seemed able to tell from my countenance that I was no longer a spring chicken. the lines on my face and the tiny gray hairs on my head seemed to give me away. 

Now I have reached my seventy fifth year and for the very first time I almost feel my age. I still measure my days with accomplishments and they are many. I am the mathematics teacher/tutor for ten students who keep my mind sharp and my laughter flowing. I read and write for hours every single day. I can clean my entire house from top to bottom in a single session but such excess invariably leads me to the bottle of Advil that I keep close by. I seem to lose loved ones at a more exponential pace and have grown to dread messages and phone calls announcing the illnesses or demise of those close to me in age. I now play the role of matriarch of my family and find that by definition I despise it because it means that I have lost the wisdom and guidance of the older women who were so important to me. I spend most of my days in a continual loop of routines that are not nearly as exciting as days of the past. 

Somehow I am still a caretaker. Perhaps I was destined to play that role even before I was born. I’m still able to cook and clean and accommodate the needs of my older father-in-law, but unlike in the past I seem unable to do more than one thing at a time. I can walk but don’t ask me to chew gum while doing so. I appear to be my old energetic self but I fall into bed exhausted most nights. Seventy five has finally forced me to consider that I may not totally be what I used to be. 

Just when I think it might be a good idea to allow myself to slow down a voice tells me to keep on trucking. I may be bent and creaky but my heart is strong and my brain is still working quite well. Like many of my peers I don’t yet feel ready to just throw in the towel and sit back to enjoy a view of the world. I know that I still have something to offer and I am determined to keep thinking younger than I am. I know that I can still make a difference. I won’t yield to the idea of feeling as though I have nothing more to offer. I continue to learn and evolve with the times.

I am my grandfather’s granddaughter. When he was my age he was still working. When he was eighty he purchased a farm and labored from dawn to dusk growing crops and tending livestock. At eighty eight he was installing light fixtures at NASA. When he turned ninety he purchased a new suit thinking that he might need to have one for his burial. When he finally died at the age of one hundred eight that suit was eighteen years old and quite worn. 

I suppose that Grandpa’s blood traces energetically through my veins. My mind hears the number of my years and wonders if I am nearing final act of my story but then I shake my head and know that I’m not even close to feeling done. So as I celebrate my diamond jubilee I plan to just ignore the number of my days. They have never meant anything to me before and should not make a difference now. Somehow it feels as though I have only just begun.