Month: September 2024

I know a young woman who recently returned from working in Paris. She made many friends there who keep in contact with her hoping that one day she will return. They also worry that she will be shot by a mass shooter. Such is the reputation of the United States in other parts of the world. They see the endless headlines of assassination attempts, school shootings, crazed shooters at malls, movie theaters, concerts and they wonder why we Americans do nothing to stem the tide of violence. 

Another dear friend of mine retired from teaching and moved to her homeland in India. She has grandchildren who have lived all over the world and she has enjoyed visiting with them in places like Tokyo Japan, Vienna Austria, South Korea. Now her loved ones live in Switzerland in a very peaceful town Her oldest grandson is heading off to college in the United States, a place where she and her children once lived and worked. She should be excited for his new adventure but there is a part of her that worries about him. She wonders if he will be safe from the epidemic of violence that seems to only grow in our nation. 

As a teacher, mom, grandmother, and good neighbor I have felt the anger and sorrow following shooting incidents in our country. I have participated in drills and talked with my students about tactics to use in the event that our location might come under siege. I have rushed through the hallways of a school with a walkie talkie urging students and teachers to get inside classrooms and lock doors with news that a shooter might be on campus. I have felt my heart beating rapidly as I worried that the danger in that moment was real and not just another practice session. I have wondered if I would do the right things to protect my students and faculty members if the worst ever happened.

I now find myself scanning the environment wherever I go. In movie theaters I look for the exits and imagine myself lying face down on the floor. In stores I look to see if there are places to hide. It has become an instinct now that I do not mention to anyone. It only takes a few seconds of my time to consider possibilities for being safe no matter what happens and then I go back to real life and forget about my fears. 

I know a man whose son was shot and killed in an incident of road rage. I have a former student who was at the concert in Las Vegas that ended up in a bloodbath. I have seen how they were forever changed by these horrific moments. They never really get over the horror and the loss. 

I have not become immune to the feelings that rise up each time I hear of a shooting somewhere. I shed tears and feel angry and helpless. I think of the families of those who die. I think of the survivors and how their worlds have been so suddenly turned upside down. I think of how difficult it has become for parents to leave their children at school each morning without worrying about their safety in ways that never would have occurred to me when my own sweet daughters were little. I wonder how often teachers now consider the possibility of danger in their classrooms. I grieve again and again and again believing that nothing will change, that we will never get serious about solving this problem. We seem to be unwilling to make sacrifices strong enough to bring a halt to the insidious problem that stalks us over and over again. 

I do pray. My thoughts are with the victims and the survivors but I know that this is not enough. We can put fences around campuses and steel doors on the buildings and arm everyone, but those are not solutions. They are merely passive defenses. Not all the moats in the world will stop the killing but getting control of the proliferation of guns and being as serious about mental health as we are about heart disease and cancer will be good first steps. Until we are willing to admit that protecting our freedom to bear arms to the excess that now exists is the main reason that we have and epidemic of violence nothing will change. 

We will moan and groan for briefer and briefer times and then quickly move on until the next incident. We will argue again and again about who is at fault and pay lip service to real solutions. We will continue to allow nothing to happen because it is too difficult to admit that we are to blame for allowing things to get so far out of hand. 

Ironically each time there is any kind of mass shooting gun and ammunition sales increase. We worry about the meaning of Christmas being modernized and then see greeting cards with photos of families bearing arms. We have members of Congress who wear AR15 pins on their lapels as though defying any efforts to take those dangerous weapons off of our streets. We no longer have just the wild west. Every place in America feels as wild as ever. 

I honestly do not know what to do anymore but I will not be silent on this issue. I will work with the families and survivors of shootings. I will tell my Congressman and Senator that I expect him or her to do something about this. I will vote for those willing to face the issues and present ideas for stemming the killing. I can’t just wipe away my tears and look away. The violence will continue to escalate until we focus honestly and seriously on what must be done. 

In the long ago, when we were young and energetic, my husband and I agreed to travel to New Orleans in a caravan with my brother on the spur of the moment. We had little time to pack some extra clothes and head out of town after dark. Since the drive from Houston was about five hours long we realized that we would be arriving at our destination in the middle of the night. 

Somehow we were not the least bit worried about becoming drowsy or finding ourselves running out of gasoline in a small town where everything closes up not long after the sun goes down. We were on a grand adventure that pulled us down the highway without a care in the world. 

Everything went well until we suddenly had to stop behind a long line of cars. At first there seemed to be no reason for the delay but then we noticed people combing through the underbrush on the side of the road. As we scanned the area we saw a chair broken into pieces, some children’s toys, and clothes lying on the branches of small trees. It was a curious and ominous site. 

My husband exited from the car to see what was happening as did my brother who was just ahead of us. They came back to report that a vehicle pulling a travel trailer had somehow careened off of the road. The people wandering in the weeds were searching for the members of the family who had been in the car and apparently had been thrown out into the darkness. Soon my brother and husband would join them, disappearing into the darkness.

I remember bursting into tears as I thought of the poor souls whose wreckage was strewn all around us. I prayed that everyone would be safely found. The wait in that traffic jam lasted for what seemed hours as the highway patrol and civilians alike worked diligently to find and identify anyone who might have been hurt. I stayed with my children who by then were sleeping peacefully in the back seat of our car. I watched the unfolding drama with growing anxiety coupled with relief as people were brought out one by one on stretchers still very much alive. 

I was impressed by the total devotion to the emergency that kept the search and rescue process going with so much cooperation and concern. Nobody seemed angry to be stuck on the crowded road that was not moving for miles. Eventually we learned that the members of the family had all been found. We would never know if all of them had made it out alive but I did see men carrying youngsters who were crying, leading me to hope that they would eventually be okay. 

When the law officers finally asked us to leave the rest of the investigation to them, everyone got back inside their cars and drove away as did we. I felt quite unnerved as we continued on our journey. I could still see the wreckage, the members of the family and the kind men and women who instinctively worked tirelessly in the rescue efforts. I prayed that everyone who had been injured would survive without any kind of permanent damage to their bodies or their psyches. I marveled at the instinctive goodness of all of the people who had rallied to help. 

I have witnessed the kindness of humans many times over the decades but that particular moment is etched in my mind with the clearest details. I only need think of it and it feels as though I am on that scene once again. It had an everlasting effect on my soul. On the one hand the vision of the violent wreckage illuminated in the shadows of darkness was so haunting. On the other hand the instantaneous reaction of the people searching for the victims in tall weeds and under an inky sky was uplifting. It felt as though I had witnessed what makes humans so incredibly self sacrificing in times of need. There was total unity of purpose without need for leaders or directions. Everyone understood the job that needed to be done. 

That moment in time was horrifying. I instantly identified with the people whose trip down the highway had been so suddenly interrupted by tragedy. I thought of how terrifying it would be if my own daughters had been flung into the matted jungle of weeds to a space where who knows what might have harmed them. I hoped that in a similar circumstance there would be good people to search for them and help them just as I had witnessed on that long ago night. Somehow in that moment I knew that there always would be kindness in their hours of need. 

We never know when something terrible will happen to us or to a member of our family. I’ve had some minor brushes with danger and on every occasion I have witnessed brave souls offering solace without hesitation. It seems to be part of our DNA and it is that very aspect of our natures that keeps me feeling positive even when situations seem to be quite uncertain or dreary. Call me a cockeyed totally naive optimist but I will always believe that when the situation demands it, there will always be heroes among us. Look around and I think you will find them just as I have. 

I have been lucky to have incredible neighbors wherever I have lived for all of my life. My childhood was tinged by the tragedy of my father’s death but the wonderful people among whom I grew into an adult were always ready to help me and my family. I felt safe and loved  and part of something bigger than just me, my two brothers and my mother. Save for the trauma of losing my father I enjoyed what some might describe as an idyllic childhood on Belmark Street in southeast Houston. 

Eventually I would leave home and begin a new life with my husband, Mike. We started our decades long journey in a couple of apartments where I once again encountered people who walked along with me as I grew into and more independent adult. They were my peers but also my teachers who were filled with practical skills that they shared with me for surviving in the world. 

When our children were still so young that they had not yet started school we moved to our first home near Hobby Airport. There we were the youngsters on the block, surrounded by men and women who might have been our wise older brothers and sisters. I knew that they were watching over us, making sure that we would be okay in our new role as home owners. They were wonderful people whose doors were always open to us whenever we needed advice or just a place to stop for a time and chat. 

We grew into middle age there as our neighbors began to show the wrinkles and greying hair of of time catching up with them. I sensed and feared that we would be left behind to take on the role of the elders while they moved on to homes with smaller yards and fewer responsibilities. I knew it was time to make a move of our own. Thus we relocated to our present house on a lovely cul-de-sac in Pearland. Oddly enough we found ourselves being the older people among young folk just starting families and growing their careers. 

We had lived in our former home for over thirty years surrounded by the same people, but the people near our new home seemed to come and go with regularity. In particular the house next door seemed to have a revolving door with different families coming and going. Then one day a lovely woman named Melissa came to stay there for a time with her husband and little girl. She was a friendly soul who first saw me outside with my granddaughter and immediately invited the two of us to a birthday party for her child. 

We felt like part of her family from the get go. From that moment forward she showered us with friendliness and generosity. She was young enough to be my daughter but we had a connection that surpassed age. I was enthralled with the loveliness of her personality and hoped that she would tarry for a longer time than others had spent in the house that seemed destined to be a way station rather than a settled home. 

Sadly Melissa too moved away far more quickly than I had hoped but she made sure that our friendship would survive by keeping our connection alive through social media and her thoughtfulness in difficult times. She delivered flowers and goodies and fine conversation after a surgery that I had. She kept me apprised of her busy life and the new joys of having a second daughter. I saw that she was loved and admired by everyone who met her and that she was energetic beyond what seemed to be humanly possible. 

Melissa was always doing something wonderful for anyone having a difficult time. Many months ago she built a “blessing box” near her home that she filled with staples of food that is always there for anyone who needs it. She keeps an eye on the contents making sure it is never empty. She encourages those who are able to do so to help with her project by bringing their own offerings. She asks nothing of the people who come to her little food pantry and cheerfully makes known that anyone is welcome to partake of its contents. 

After the hurricane that hit our area of the country there were people in dire need. Without power for days they lost the food that they had purchased for their families. Because many businesses were closed some were unable to work and earn the funds they needed to purchase replacements for the items that had gone bad. Melissa reminded everyone that her blessing box was open and people came to accept her largesse. One such person left a lovely note for her explaining the depth of her despair in being unable to feed her hungry children. Then she remembered reading about the blessing box and found her way to where it stood filled with just what she needed to stave off hunger. Then she blessed Melissa with her gratitude. 

I have learned over time of the goodness of people. I have been the recipient of their loving concern again and again. From the neighbors on Belmark Street to my present day home I have been surrounded by individuals like Melissa who go out of their way to be good neighbors. It is from this continuing experience that I draw optimism even in the most difficult times. 

Perhaps I have simply been lucky wherever I have lived, but I think that the truth is that people want to be kind and loving and helpful. There is a goodness in each of us that finds its way into the hearts of those who live around us. Some folks are more outgoing and inclined to be quintessential neighbors like Melissa but when there is a need mostly everyone rises to the occasion. I remind myself of that everyday, especially when we are led to believe that we are living through times of doom. I suspect that when everyone looks around they find the kind of blessings that Melissa so beautifully offers multiplied millions of times over. It’s nice to remember the blessings around us even when the skies are gray and the times are challenging.  

I keep hearing the question, “Are you better off today than you were four years ago?” When I think about what was happening four years ago I can’t help feeling as though this is an unnecessary query. Of course I am better today because four years ago we were in a state of uncertainty as we watched people that we knew and loved dying from a strange virus called COVID 19. 

I will always vividly remember those first months of 2020 when all the world seemed so normal until suddenly everything changed. I had gone to the Houston Rodeo Cook Off and mingled with large crowds innocently unaware that in only a few weeks the annual Livestock Show and Rodeo would be shut down as a precaution against the virus that seemed to be growing exponentially. I would first hear whispers about it from my sister-in-law who knew people who had returned from travels with a strange sickness. The first public reports of their illness were low key. After all there were only six or seven of them. Then the damn burst.

My husband had been scheduled that to have a heart procedure to unblock two of his arteries. I understood the seriousness of what was happening in the hospital as we were screened for fevers and provided with masks as we entered the building. Once we reached the floor where the treatment would take place I was told that I had to stay there or I would not be allowed to return. 

Normally my husband would have spent the night after his arteries had been repaired but on that day he would only stay until he was stabilized and then be sent home. I sat in the waiting room for over twelve hours before a nurse came to escort me out of the building so that I might retrieve my car. It took us more than thirty minutes to find an exit that was not locked up tightly. When I finally picked up my husband in front of the hospital that same nurse earnestly wished us well and urged us to be safe from the virus. The look on her face was serious and frightened.

My husband and I lived in total isolation after that. I ordered groceries from Instacart and other necessaries from Amazon. We had food delivered to our home for special occasions. The schools mostly closed down and then President Trump issued a stay at home order for two weeks to attempt to stem the spread of the virus. Many people began working remotely and I taught my homeschoolers with Zoom. In the midst of all of it there was a political campaign for the presidency that felt so strange. 

We celebrated birthdays with Face Time and sent monetary gifts with Venmo. When our anniversary came we ordered food from Brennan’s, dressed up, picked it up and ate on china in our dining room. We braved Thanksgiving outside in our backyard with two grandsons whose parents and brother were at home sick with the virus. We visited our daughter in San Antonio at Christmas time on her driveway in chairs set six feet apart. Christmas came to us by way of the mail and other delivery systems. We got together with the family with Zoom. 

It was all so strange and frightening because people were dying and I knew many of them. I kept thinking about the terrified look on the face of that nurse as she bid us goodbye. The doctors in my family were urging us to be very careful so we invested in masks and prayed for the time when we might be vaccinated. We learned how to cope but I worried about the youngsters whose important developmental years were being distorted in ways that I knew would affect them for the rest of their lives. 

I was not wrong in that regard. loneliness and despair became as contagious as the virus itself. A very nice man that I knew killed himself. I keep wondering if he would have done so had the world not been so upside down four years ago. The times were so uncertain and somehow we did not work together as a nation. Instead we argued over how to treat the presence of the virus. Our then President Trump fomented divisions among us that led to rifts in friendships and family relationships that should have instead been a time of national unity. 

The world is imperfect four years later but most of the worst scenarios are the creations of authoritarians and terrorists who have used this moment to create wars. For people in those situations the suffering continues and entire generations will never be the same as they might have been. Here in the United States we have made it through the worst times. While our economy is still stressful it is actually the best in the world. We will have to have some patience as the needed adjustments continue. Our democracy made it past the attempted overthrow of the election of 2020 by Donald Trump who became the first ever President of the United States to not accept the outcome. We were fortunate to have incredible doctors, dedicated teachers, laborers who worked even as we hid in our homes. We have made a comeback under the patient and steady hand of President Joe Biden. We still have work to do but all in all we are much better off than we were four years ago and none of us should want to go back to those times. 

We are only weeks away from another election. We should ask ourselves if cheap gas is more important to us that protecting our democracy from a man who so cravenly abandoned us in one of our darkest hours and then incited a coup when he did not win again. Why would we worry more about inflation than our democracy? If we truly love this country we have to remember what it was really like four years ago. We can’t repeat the nightmare. 

I’ve been actively working as an educator for well over fifty years. I’ve done everything from working with four year olds to teaching College Algebra. I’ve held positions in private schools with middle and upper middle class students and in public schools where some of my pupils were homeless. The vast majority of of the young men and women that I taught were first or second generation immigrants, some legally here and others only protected by DACA. 

I’ve seen the world from their eyes. I have shared their dreams. I have watched their progress in a society that that all too often spurns them. I have been challenged by angry immigrants who thought that I was just a wealthy white woman who had no idea how difficult their lives were. I have even been called a racist by a frustrated Hispanic student who saw my attempts to teach him as a sign that I thought him to be ignorant. 

I once defended myself from the doubts of some of my students pointing out my background which includes having an Hispanic father-in-law and a Chinese sister-in-law. I told them stories of my Slovakian grandparents facing the same kind of prejudices they endured when they came to America. I spoke of my mother being called a “dirty Pollack” by her best friend’s mother. I spoke of my family’s poverty after my father’s death and how my brothers and I used education as a pathway into the middle class. I wanted them to know that it had not been easy for my family to melt into American society but did agree that being white had no doubt helped. I wanted them to realize that I wanted to assist them in navigating a world that would sometimes be unkind to them. I tried to give them hope. 

I allowed my students to really know me because I saw that they were all too often being misjudged simply because of their appearance or their speech or even the places where they lived. They often had to work harder than most to be respected and accepted. This was particularly true when their parents still struggled with speaking English. Sometimes, but thankfully not too often, other teachers considered them to be inferior. I witnessed their struggles in real time and admired them all the more for pushing forward, ignoring the naysayers and creating incredible lives for themselves much as my mother and her siblings had done. 

I have to admit to being appalled by the theme of mass deportation that seemed to enliven the attendees at the Republican National Convention this summer. The specter of ten million people being deported was a kind of lightning rod for the crowd but it was an absurdity and travesty for me. To lump together millions of people without knowing them individually is to deny their very humanity. It amounts to judging them without evidence other than their race or language or religion or culture. It is akin to throwing rocks at innocents or hating them because they have somehow been deemed “dirty.”

I know accomplished young people who are among the so called illegal. Through no fault of their own they were brought here as babies, toddlers, young children. They know no other place than the United States. They have grown up with a command of the language and customs of our country. They have degrees and certifications. They work at difficult jobs and yet according to the promises made that the GOP convention they are in danger of being sent away to places that they do not know. 

There are also many classified as illegal who are the backbone of the farming industry. Without their labor there would be nobody to do all of the handwork required to plant, cultivate and pick the crops. Food would become less plentiful and far more costly without them. There would be untold shortages. They are not taking other people’s jobs, they are doing jobs that other people do not want to do. The same can be said of so much labor intensive work. Construction crews would be decimated. 

Most people do not realize how much illegals contribute to hotels and restaurants either. It is estimated that without them the entire industry would devolve into a state of disarray. When those who have worked their way up to professional jobs are put into the mix it should be apparent that these are not people who are ransacking our country with violence and crime but instead they are working souls simply wanting better lives for themselves and their families just as immigrants have always been. Statistics show clearly that there is a lower crime rate among immigrants in general and illegal ones in particular than the rest of the population and yet they are being presented as a clear and peril danger to us all. 

Over the years I have learned to admire and love the immigrants who have come to our country. They do not take our opportunities and largess for granted. They are the first ones to rise to the occasion hen we need to work our way out of natural disasters. They arrive willing to do the dirty work that we appall or cannot do. They love their children and want the same things for them that we want for ours. They are not a danger but a national treasure and we do them wrong and our country wrong when we insist that they go away.