Month: April 2025

Most teachers spend several weeks during the summer taking classes designed to keep them up to par with the latest educational methodologies. I have partaken of so many courses and conferences that helped to inform me in becoming a better and better purveyor of knowledge to my students. I almost always found a nugget of educational gold in those sessions and sometimes even learned a bit more about myself. 

There was one occasion in which those of us participating began the two week marathon by answering straight forward questions about our viewpoints of the world and most especially our students. We had no idea what the purpose of such an exercise might be and it was fun to provide our thoughts and beliefs. A few days later we received the not so surprising results of the survey noting that more than ninety percent of us had scored in the high ninetieth percentiles of altruism which was defined as “a belief or practice of selfless concern for the well-being of others.”

Given that teachers earn disproportionately less than other college graduates for work that is  extremely important to society it was not surprising to us that our altruism was the driver that kept us returning to the classroom year after year. We already knew in our hearts that we had decided that the reward of doing something bigger than becoming wealthy was our motivation. It was nonetheless interesting that our devotion to our vocation was so universally grounded in our desires to make a difference in providing opportunities for our students to grow and prosper. 

Almost every physiological measure that I have taken has resulted in the same assessment of what makes me tick. I also understand all too well how my fellow teachers are cut from the same cloth. We find joy in the very idea of being the helpers in this world. We see the needs of people and we do everything we can to lift them up. The same might be said for nurses and fire fighters and other people who provide services to the community. There is a vast array of selflessness across the globe that provides love and care to people. 

Ironically those of us devoted to being the helpers understand the need for leaders who know how to produce funding for our projects. We look to them for the resources that we need knowing that they have skills that may be lacking in us. That is the nature of altruistic people. We see the possibilities of every kind of talent that humans exhibit. We realize that it would be a  tragedy to only develop business acumen or engineering skills in everyone. That person with a great sense of humor who makes us laugh is as important to our survival as humans as anyone. The goal of education should never be exclusive. We need those who design bridges and those who have the skills to actually build them. The value of each human is unique.

There seems to be a great deal of pressure these days to retool our schools and universities to focus only on what some deem as being practical goals. As a mathematics teacher I have always enjoyed almost universal approval but I know full well that some of the most important lessons a student might ever encounter occur not in the STEM classrooms but in the history classes or when reading great novel. It is important that we think about our own thinking and it is in the humanities that some of the most impactful moments occur. 

None of us are robots nor should we be. The ability to understand our fellow humans is as important as unlocking the mysteries of numbers and physics. It really is possible to be brilliant in one area and somewhat lacking in another. That is why we have so many different types of work for people to do. Once a person finds his or her niche magic often happens. Sadly our society tends to provide kudos for many professions over others in a very lopsided way giving the impression that some work is not as important as others. We sometimes retool our schools to rank majors more according to the income that they will produce rather than to the impact that they will have on how we humans treat each other. 

I never took a philosophy class in college. I was too busy to add what seemed to be a somewhat frivolous class to my schedule. it would not be until I had retired from work that I would sign up for an overview of philosophy in a continuing education program. It did not take long for me to be totally addicted to reading more and more from the noted philosophers of history and the present time. I soon realized that the process of considering how and why we humans thing\k and behave was one of the most important things I had ever done. I now look forward to applying the ideas of philosophy to all facets of life. My studies have expanded my mind and my outlook in exciting ways. 

There should be no restrictions to learning. Of course young students need grounding in the basics but it would be wrong to deny opportunities to explore any facet of human knowledge. The more we open our minds to new ideas the better we are in helping communities of people to thrive. Our minds are not dough which should be cut into repetitious shapes. We are individuals who each have a personality and longing to contribute our talents to the world. Never, never should we be stifled in our lifelong journey of becoming.

I suppose that I still see my father through the eyes of a child and yet I somehow conform my memories of him to the journey that has led me to the person that I am. I was but a child when he left this earth and he was a very young man still attempting to find his true purpose in the story of humankind. While I have had plenty of time to sort out who I am and how I hope to impact the tiny speck of the universe in which I have lived, he was still in the process of becoming. 

My father was off at work during most of the days in which I enjoyed being his child. He set out for early each morning and came home as my mother was preparing dinner. He would exchange the suit that he wore to his job with khaki pants and a comfortable shirt and then ensconce himself on the couch where he would read the afternoon newspaper. I knew not to interrupt him while he was busy studying the many sections of local and worldwide news but I liked sitting nearby waiting and watching for him to take notice of me with commentaries about what he was learning from the words imprinted on those pulpy pages. Invariably he informed me with his own editorial views about what was happening in the world around me, often adding his own knowledge of history to explain the whys and wherefores of the daily march of time. 

Those brief moments with my father would become precious to me after he was gone. I would remember the classical music that he played on our Victrola and the chuckles that seemed to come from way down in his belly when he encountered a story that was funny. He seemed to enjoy explaining things to me and so I made it a point to be present and attentive so that I might earn the pearls of wisdom that gave so freely from his prolific thoughts. 

Whenever we went to visit my father’s parents, my grandparents, I was often guided to my Grandma Minnie’s side where I learned folksy skills, but I would also be listening to the conversations occurring in another room between my daddy and his father. I never knew exactly what was animating their discussions, but I could hear the liveliness of their voices and the references to books and articles that they had read. i suppose my own quest for knowledge and love of reading began from my father’s example and a childlike urge to make him proud of me even after he was gone. 

My home is filled with books and magazines. I have online subscriptions to so many newspapers and periodicals that I can hardly find the time to stay up to date in reading them. Like my father I have certain times in the day when I pause to give my full attention to learning about the current events and news. I have long daily discussions with my husband and often think of how much he would have enjoyed talking with my father. I envision the two of them enjoying lively discussions in attemps to make sense of the world. 

I have an everlasting link with my father through learning. I imagine sharing what I have discovered with him. I realize that the happiest moments for me are found in wandering through bookstores, and partaking in serious studies of history and science while also finding ways to laugh at our human foibles. I know that my life has been quietly guided by the gift of curiosity that he awakened in me. Sometimes I feel his spirit and encouragement pushing me to find answers to the many questions that I have. 

As an educator I have realized just how precious my father’s gift of example has been for me. All too often I have encountered young people living in homes devoid of opportunities to enrich their knowledge. Nobody has inspired them to unlock the wonders of the printed word in the kind of ways my father did for me. It is often up to a gifted teacher to show them the glories, excitement and power to be found in reading. 

I have encountered students whose home life was in such turmoil that they had little time to enjoy the luxury of reading. They often had to simply find ways to survive the hardships inflicted on them by fate. They were on their own while their parents struggled just to keep food in the house and a roof over their heads. The horror stories that I have heard are legion. I suppose that my love of teaching has evolved from wanting to be for them what my father was for me. 

After my father died I became a model student in his honor. My childish mind somehow believed that it was what he would have wanted me to do. Over time his habits became mine and in turn I passed them down to my daughters and my students. Doing so has provided great purpose for my life but I see that there is still much work to be done. Far too many people today are easily mislead because they do not take the time to cull through the many lies and propaganda efforts that depend on ignorance to survive. I suppose that means that I still have work to do, encouraging one person at a time to set aside time to read and to learn. It should be as routine as breathing. My father showed me that we must always feed and exercise our minds. From him I received an inheritance beyond measure.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow. Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.                         

——-Earnest Lawrence Thayer 

I know that I should be content that my University of Houston Cougars made it to the championship basketball game. They were among an elite group of teams who edged forward game by game until there were only two teams vying for the national title. Just being there should have been enough for me but my history of being a Cougar fan is more complicated than a single moment or a single game. The loss to Florida in the final moments brought back memories that have cursed me for decades. 

It was nineteen eighty-two and I was about to finish my decree after pausing to take care of my mother who had battled mental illness. My resolve to get back to school had stalled when my husband developed a rare fungal disease that put him in the hospital for months undergoing chemotherapy. In the meantime I had been blessed with two little girls who vied for much of my time. Eventually the challenges that had pulled me out of the university had subsided and I had returned to complete my degree. It was all about to come to fruition. 

There was another legendary University of Houston team that garnered the nickname Phi Slamma Jamma. Guy Lewis was the coach and star players like Akeem the Dream Olajuwon and Clyde the Glide Drexler were heading for the final game in the March Madness marathon. I was even in a course with Clyde and had worked on a group project with him. Hakeem would meet Clyde after class and I often walked behind them as I rushed to an English class in another building far away on campus. Ironically I was so focused on completing my studies that I did not associate those two with the jubilation that had infected the entire student body. i only knew that my group had received a failing grade on our presentation because Clyde had not shown up on our appointed day. 

When I complained to my husband he laughed and asked if the Clyde of my group happened to have the last name of Drexler. When I nodded he laughed and told me that Clyde was busy winning basketball games and moving into the finals. it all made sense when I though of how tall and powerful he looked. I was suddenly forgiving and understanding even as I nursed my disappointment in receiving the first failing grade of my university career. 

I was incredibly busy attempting to complete the courses required of my major. I was reading and writing papers and studying for exams with not a moment to fritter away. i was also responsible for the care and nurturing of my daughters and the main keeper of my home. When the final game came I had to keep to my unforgiving routines while my husband watched in the back of the house in our den. 

At the very end of the contest he called me anxiously announcing that I had to watch the final moments as it seemed certain the University of Houston and its Dream Team was going to win. I raced to cheer them on and just as I entered Hakeem missed a throw. My Cougars had lost. Me and my husband were stunned and I forevermore became synonymous with being a jinx. 

It all ended well for me despite my unrelenting disappointment. Clyde returned to class and the teacher realized that she had made a terrible mistake. We received an A for our project and not long after that I graduated and began my career in education. 

Of course a lifetime passed. I spent over forty years as a teacher and administrator. I earned a Masters’ degree from the University of Houston and my children grew up and left home. I finally retired and began tutoring and taking care of my elderly father-in-law. A new group of talented basketball players from the university fought their way to a spot in the final game. Once again the lure of a national championship seemed possible but in case my jinx was real everyone begged me to stay away from watching the game and so I did.

Of course our mighty team lost once again in the final moments. I did not see this and I was not the jinx but I still felt a bitter disappointment. It was difficult to believe that this had happened once again and unlike most I was not simply content that the team had lost. I selfishly wanted more for them. There was no joy in Houston and no joy in my home. I guess we have to wait until next time and hope that we finally get the gold. I hope get to see that because there is no fun in losing and I always think of Mudville when we do. 

I always become pensive during the week before Easter Sunday. It is a time in the Catholic Church when we recall the Passion of Jesus which was the ultimate definition of how we should all be. He engaged in human suffering and endured political violence and ultimately death in defense of the morality that he strove to teach us. He gave us the new commandment of loving our neighbor as much as we love ourselves. He demonstrated the pain and sorrow that we must sometimes bear if we are to follow that commitment. 

There is an irony taking place this season that should be filling the hearts all people of peace and goodwill. As we prepare to celebrate the glorious resurrection of Jesus Christ our fellow brothers and sisters are suffering indignities that many of them do not deserve. In particular our nation under the command of our president is welding a fist against people that he has deemed to be our enemies rather than demonstrating the mercy that Jesus exemplified throughout his short life here on earth. 

We may indeed have both foreign and homegrown criminals among us and it is right and just to remove them from society and constrain them in prisons, but this should only be done when we are certain that they are indeed guilty of the horrors attributed to them. Right now immigrants in our land are being plucked off of the streets with little or no evidence of their guilt. They are being sent to a jail of horrors in El Salvador without due process to determine the extent of their infractions beyond just being here illegally. 

If we are to be a nation of laws it is incumbent on all of us to demand that the deportation of individuals living among us be fair, not a mockery like the trial and persecution that Jesus endured more than two thousand years ago. Surely those of us who have heard the story of Jesus and read his words must know that cruelty without conscience is always wrong even when the reasons for it purport to protect us from harm. 

Ours is a nation built on fairness but we have certainly had moments when the ideals of our Constitution have been ignored. The United States is guilty of the national sin of slavery in the past and the harsh treatment of the descendants of slaves still reverberates more than it should even to this day. Now we watch often with silence as men are sent to El Salvador to rot in a prison so vile that it should be listed as a crime against humanity. Supposedly we had moved past such horrific punishment but instead those in power are applauding the psychological and physical destruction of people whose full stories have yet to be told. 

These same people purport to be Christians of the highest order. They want prayers in schools and the ten commandments posted in government buildings. They want the Untied States to be known as a Christian nation even as their lies and cruelty fly in the face of all that is holy. They celebrate their hatefulness and threaten those who would dare to question them. They humiliate the president of Ukraine and warmly welcome the president who resides over a prison that should be outlawed for its indecent treatment. 

I don’t claim to know what Jesus would do in the current situation but I know what he did when he saw such things in his own time. He pushed back on hypocrisy. He performed miracles to save people in defiance of rules that would have left them to die. He embraced those who were suffering. He made friends with outcasts. He forgave those willing to repent. He showed us how to live moral lives without prejudice or beliefs that one person was better than another. He bore the cross of hate and persecution.

I plan to protest on Holy Saturday. I do not want to be hiding in fear while seeing my fellow humans being mistreated. I will stand for the innocents who have been wrongly imprisoned. I will stand with trans men and women who do nothing to harm us but are subjected to humiliation. I will stand with the people of Ukraine who did not start a war, but who were attacked by a vile dictator intent on grabbing their land. I will stand for the message that Jesus gave us in his Sermon on the Mount. He taught us to love, to forgive, to be just and devoted to equality for all people. I will stand for truth and fairness. I will remember his words, “Do to others whatever you would like them to do to you. This is the essence of all that he taught. 

We all have work to do if we are to truly remember Jesus on Easter Sunday. He told us that it would not be easy to do what is right “when men shall revile you., and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.” Nonetheless we should remember that when we follow his example we will be blessed.

The coming days and weeks will be difficult. It will be easier to look away and pretend that all is well but as long as anyone is suffering we must respond in the ways that Jesus showed us. This is how we honor and praise him.

I doubt that any of us enjoy conflict, but the reality of being human is to endure conflict on some level throughout life. There are the angst ridden days of youth when encounters with playground bullies or the snark of gossip can rattle us to our very core. There are the conflicts inside our heads as we struggle to make important decisions. Sometimes we find ourselves enmeshed with cruel individuals who abuse us either emotionally or physically. We might become the innocent victims of conflicts between families, friends or even nations. Conflict may be a clash between beliefs or points of view. 

Each of us react to conflict whether simple or dangerous in differing ways. Some simply look away and attempt to pretend that nothing is wrong. Others go deeply inside themselves to the point of almost losing their identities. Then there are the people who boldly take charge of the situation, unafraid to advocate for themselves or others. How we react is at the heart of our personal philosophies, psychologies and totality of our experiences. 

I admittedly spent the early years of my life in a safe little cocoon carefully crafted by my loving parents. I had little idea about the kind of hardships that people were enduring. I lived in a world of sparkles and unicorns. That all changed when my father died. Suddenly I saw how difficult and cruel life can sometimes be. Still, my mother worked hard to be a positive role model for me and my brothers, never letting us see her worry. Nonetheless as I grew older I began to notice her whispered conversations with her confidantes that seemed urgent and worrisome. I was old enough to compare our new lifestyle with the one we had with my father. I realized that money was tight and that my mother was carrying a heavy load on her back. I quietly tried to be less of a burden. 

By my teen years my mother had finally begun dating. It was about ten years from my father’s death and she was quite tentative about the whole experience. She was only forty years old and still beautiful and vivacious. Some of the men she encountered were less than chivalrous and she often broke off relationships. I felt conflicted because I wanted her to be happy but in my mind nobody lived up to my father’s standards. Still, I knew that Mama was lonely and that dating was a healthy and good thing. I tried to find the good in the ordinary men who came to our home. Only one of them who was a charismatic and handsome history teacher lived up to my high standards. I was saddened when my mother broke up with him as well. 

Eventually she began to date a man whom she had known as a teenager. He and his brothers had rented a house across the street from her family home. She remembered thinking he was handsome but actually having a crush on his brother who was attending Rice University at the time. Nothing romantic happened back then, but somehow knowing that he had once lived near her made the man seem safe to her. In spite of declaring on their first date that he was not someone that she wanted to continue seeing, she was just lonely enough to keep accepting dates with him until he was asking her to marry him and she was delaying answers because it was not what she wanted at all. 

The more the man came to our home the more conflict I harbored about the whole situation. I was not so much adverse to the idea of my mother finding love again as I was to watching this man openly mentally hurt her. I wondered how bad he was in private when he made no attempt to cover his vileness in front of me. He seemed so shallow compared to my brilliant mom. He was in his fifties and had never amounted to much while my mother had a college degree and had been a respected teacher. I did not want to be materialistic, but I scorned him for driving a low end car while constantly boasting and threatening my mother with announcement about how much power he wielded. I wanted to tell him to get out of my house and leave my mother alone but I did not have the wherewithal to voice the words. I simply hoped that my mother would find her courage and send him away forever. 

I was unwilling to engage in conflict with the situation and so I sat watching my mother became quite mentally ill. This man had reduced her to a shell of her former self. I had heard him frightening her and tearing her down. I blamed him for her delicate condition that seemed to grow darker and more worrisome by the day. I was still a teen and unsure of what to do even though I was sure that something needed to happen. In a panic I called one of my uncles and told him all that I had witnessed. He was in many ways the most street smart of all of my relatives and I somehow reasoned that he would know how to handle such a horrible man. He told me to let him and his brothers take care of things. So I waited and while doing so got my mother the medical care that she so desperately needed. 

The man who had so damaged my mom never came to our home again. He never talked to my mother or attempted to get back into her life. She slowly but surely regained her mental health and never mentioned his name or the fact that he had seemingly just drifted away. I was glad he was gone and dared not even voice his name. That is how it ended but I needed to know the why.

In those days nobody had a cell phone. Making calls from a family phone was far from private. I had to ask a friend if I might use her phone to call my uncle. I told him how well my mother was doing and thanked him for whatever he he done to make the horrid man go away. He only revealed that he and his three brothers had visited their old neighbor and made him understand the he should never again contact or harass their sister. I let it go with that confession. I did not to want to know about any further conflict. 

I grown enough to be capable of handling such situations on my own, but I have been forever grateful to my uncles for so quietly and valiantly defending their sister. She never knew what they had done and none of us who enjoyed the truth ever said a thing. All of those folks are gone now and I miss them. I often wish that I had told them how much I learned from them. They taught me that horrific conflicts have to be faced. There would come many more times when I had to look conflict in the eye either personally or professionally. I realized that doing so in a dignified manner can be a sign of love. Sometimes I have to defend myself. Other times I would be derelict if I did not defend friends or family. Conflict is a part of life and now I am unafraid of it.