Author: Sharron Burnett

It was my daughter’s birthday and she chose to made reservations at a pottery painting place to celebrate. So there I sat on a Saturday morning with my daughter, my grandson’s fiancé and the young woman’s mother. The pace of my life can be measured by the pure joy that I felt in that very simple moment. 

My first task was to choose the item that I wanted to paint. I went up and down the display like a kid in a store who is unable to decide what to take home. At first I had my eye on a large pitcher but when I saw that the others had all chosen small projects I realized that I would be painting long after everyone else was finished. Not wanting to change the unity of the occasion I settled on a spoon rest, a practical item that I am sure to use.

I found one on the table of finished products that was already painted and fired. I liked the design so I took a photo and began to cover my piece in multicolored dots of different sizes. The more dots I made the more whimsical the pottery became and it suited my mood. All the while we engaged in the kind of chit chat that only women will ever understand. In the process I began to feel more and more relaxed. It felt wonderful to do something that required very little deep thinking on my part. The simplicity of it all was soothing. 

I realized that I felt incredibly comfortable with that group of women and may have possibly said more than I should have. Fortunately nobody seemed to be disturbed by my comments so I felt quite safe with them. Just being myself in a world that now seems so judgmental and dismissive was refreshing. The three hours of perfecting the dots on my spoon rest were well spent. 

We continued our girl time at lunch where we sipped on margaritas and sangria and munched on enchiladas. The food was great but the camaraderie was even better. We were just four ladies representing different generations and getting along amazingly. Without all of the noise and chaos of our nation’s politics life can be rather nice. I know how my daughter thinks about things but I have no idea about the other two and it was refreshing to be in the dark if only for a few minutes. Our political world is so invasive that I find myself being asked to justify my beliefs over and over again as if I am some crazed citizen intent on upending the entire democratic system.

It hasn’t always been like that. Before 2016, I had no idea what the people I knew felt about politics and they had no interest in what I believed either. In order to win the presidency Trump changed that and social media helped to push the idea that we are all affiliated in one or the other of conflicting camps. The belief that we all wanted many of the same things was tossed out the window. The old practices of polite debates became a thing of the past. Trump showed the world exactly what he was thinking even if it sounded cruel and he got by with it. Suddenly personal beliefs were outed and debated, changing relationships in families and friendships.

I never really cared what anyone felt about different issues as long as they did not attempt to foist unsavory ideas on me. Political thoughts tended to be silent and deeply personal. I would not have been able to determine who was a Democrat or who was a Republican among my family members and friends. Suddenly Trump demanded visible allegiance with red hats and huge flags and rallies that poked fun of the opposition. We divided into tribes and began arguing fruitlessly with each other rather than quietly conferring. Politics truly became a blood sport rather than a formalized discussion of issues and platforms. Whole families and friendships were suddenly at risk and people like me were being challenged to defend our points of view. 

I kept believing that the insults and rhetoric and delivery of hoaxes from MAGAs were just a phase. I learned too late that it was a carefully planned and executed work of propaganda that is now accepted by Americans who truly believe that they are saving the nation, not tearing it down. The lines are drawn creating discomfort at family gatherings. and straining friendships all too often to the breaking point. Just enjoying putting dots on a spoon rest while chatting about nothing and everything without a single moment of political discourse became a lovely change in the world that exists today.

I sometimes wonder if Americans will grow weary of the animosity between citizens that is nurtured by the media and many of our politicians and influencers. Will we ever become more civl again? I long for the days when nobody asks me to explain why I have certain personal beliefs. I look forward to a time when the hats and the flags and the signs will be put away and we leave our thoughts about how things should be in the anonymity of the voting booth. Until we can discuss without ending relationships I suspect that I may become addicted to painting dots on pottery and spending time with people who feel safe. 

I have told this story before but it seems to bear repeating given the current political environment. I was in the sixth grade when a new girl came to our class. She was from a different part of the United States and she definitely seemed to be very unlike the rest of us who had spent most of our lives in Houston, Texas. 

She was shy and awkward and even the way she spoke stood out as being somewhat foreign to our own ways. I suppose that I instantly felt drawn to her because when I was in the third grade my family moved to California where I ended up feeling like a fish out of water. The fact that I had a Texas drawl when I spoke did not help me with either the students or the teacher who seemed to believe that I would be far behind the rest of the students simply because of where I had been learning up to that time. My foray into the new environment was painful and I reacted by hiding inside myself and just going back and forth to school like an automaton with little desire to win over my new classmates. 

By the sixth grade I had returned to Texas and the school where I had many friends and felt comfortable every single day. Since my home was closeby I walked to and from school in those days and I soon realized that the new girl was going to follow the same route that I used. Before long we were joining each other in our journeys home each afternoon. During our time together I learned that she was as sad about leaving her old life behind as I had been when I was thrust into California. We quickly bonded as I reassured her that I knew exactly how she was feeling. 

I learned that her family was struggling financially and that coming to Texas had been a way of beginning anew and finding better opportunities. Her parents were renting a house in the hopes of eventually being able to purchase a home of their own. The upheaval had left the girl feeling anxious and missing the comfort of the lifestyle and friends that she had left behind. She also realized that her midwestern accent and use of different words made her seem odd in the new culture. She wanted desperately to fit in and to build new friendships so she really appreciated our walks together that allowed her to express her feelings.

Sadly things did not go much better for her when we were at school. Somehow she continued to exist on the fringes much like I had experienced in California. Coming into a school in the spring is never easy even for someone with an outgoing personality. It is hellish for someone who is shy by nature and so it was for the girl. 

Things came to a head one day when a dispute broke out between two of the boys in the class. I never found out what started the row but it became public when one of them accused the other of having a crush on the new girl. The insult was hurled out loud in a manner that indicated that the girls was so horrid that only a real loser would be attracted to her. The two offenders threw horrific comments about the girl before the teacher was able to intercede. She handled the situation beautifully but by then the girl was in tears over the public humiliation that had ensued and both of the boys were shamed. All three were sobbing with their heads down on their desks and a brutal silence that reeked of conspiracy settled over the classroom. 

That afternoon the girl did not walk home with me. Her mother came to pick her up before the end of the day. We never saw her again. I never knew whether she had enrolled in another school or if she and her parents had moved. Nobody made mention of her again but I missed her and worried about her for a very long time. In fact I was never able to forget her and to wonder why she had been judged so harshly simply because she was different. I knew all of my classmates well and it was out of character for them to be that way. I wondered what kind of peer pressure had led to the willingness to count the girl out before ever giving her the benefit of doubt. I wondered why we had not welcomed her instead of judging her because in my heart I knew that without those walks I too might have avoided her. 

I was eleven years old at that time. Since I was a year younger than most of my classmates they probably would have been twelve years old. As a teacher I learned that sixth graders tend to be rather immature so perhaps we were all just attempting to find our way during that time. Nonetheless we were attending a private Catholic school where we had daily lessons in religion and prayed each day in the classroom. Everything that we had been taught should have lead us to be inviting and understanding just as we had been told that it was our duty to love one another. Somehow our silliness took over and hurt another twelve year old so deeply that she was not able to come back again. 

I look at the world today and I am appalled that we have so called leaders who make the bullying and insulting of that girl look tame with their egregious insults of whole swathes of people. I witness ugliness coming from adults who should  know better and I am just as confused as I was watching that girl be shunned and humiliated. I felt her pain then and I feel the pain of those who are being unfairly ostracized now. What makes it so horrific is that the harsh words are coming from our president and instead of correcting him there are Americans cheering his hate. It both stuns and frightens me because it is often done in the name of religion which makes it even more egregious. 

I wish that I had stood up for that girl as soon as the two boys uttered their poisonous insults of her but I did not. I was afraid and so I was silent. I have regretted that to this very day. Now as I hear an entire political movement bullying and harassing groups of people who have done nothing more that attempt to coexist among us I will no longer be silent. We have to speak out now or we will surely lose our rights to do so. It is frightening when I see individuals literally being murdered for attempting to protect others but I cannot afford to look away and neither can any other American who loves this country. It is time for us to behave like adults and insist that the slings and arrows of words that hurt be rightfully condemned.

The fun of life is figuring out where the rest of it goes.   —-Unknown

I learned a long time ago that even with the best laid plans, life often takes unexpected turns. Sometimes those happenings are horrific, requiring us to find courage and to adapt to new realities. Other times seem to be perfectly planned where every aspect of life smoothly goes just as we hoped they would. As we start each and every day we have no idea which of the two realities of living will take hold. 

Serendipity is not always a bad thing. Quite often an unexpected turn of events ends up being so much better than we thought they might be. I minored in mathematics because those classes were generally less labor intensive than the English classes of my major. I saw myself sitting on a stool wrapped in a shawl inspiring students to enjoy classic literature and in turn learn to write like professionals in their own right. As fate would have it the first job that I landed after graduation was a gig teaching math to students in grades six through eight. Once I had that experience on my resume any job offering was strictly for teaching math. I never sat on that stool or donned a shawl. Instead I stood all day long walking from one student desk to another to make certain that I had conveyed important skills well enough that my charges developed confidence in manipulating numbers. That turned out to be the best surprise of my life.

I have also found myself over and over again adjusting my roadmap to take on the care of members of my family. For a time I was balancing work, raising my daughters and supporting my mother through bouts of mental illness. My responsibilities tied me down, kept me living close to my mom so that I might rush to her side whenever she needed help. My horizons narrowed somewhat save for vacations but all in all I have still been able to travel and read enough to keep from being unaware of the world at large. At the same time I was proud of the support that I gave my family, my occupation and my mom. I learned how to multitask and still find balance in my life. I can honestly say that my life has had meaning, clear purpose that has made it much more rewarding than it might have been. 

Sometimes I ponder the miracle of every life. In the long arch of history millions of things had to happen for my story to unfold. Any change in the past might have meant that I would not even be here or that my biography would be totally different. It’s a stunning thing to think about. The what ifs in our lives demonstrate just how one tiny thing can change the course of history. The question becomes whether or not we would actually want that to happen. While we do indeed have personal control over our lives each of us realize at one time or another that those outside forces erupt like earthquakes to rattle our plans that may have seemed so secure. 

Because I lost my father as a child I have often wondered what I would be like if he had not taken a drive that ended in his death that night. What if he had stayed home and we had carried out our plans to move to a new home in a new neighborhood where I would have attended a different school and made different friends. Almost everything about me would have been so different. When I deeply imagine how that would have been I realize that it is a silly thing to even consider. 

Stephen King once wrote a story about a man who was able to enter a time machine that took him back to weeks before John F. Kennedy was assassinated. It was an exciting tale in which the man had to move back and forth from the present to the past in an attempt to change the course of history by saving Kennedy from his horrific fate. Ultimately he realized that each attempt that he made to redirect the past ended up destroying some aspect of the present so in his final pass into history he put things back exactly as they had been. 

The truth is that every life unveils a combination of joy and sorrow. It is inevitable that suffering will come our way in one form or another. Sadly some people get more of the horrific than the terrific. Nonetheless we are not just being moved around in some kind of preordained game which negates the power that we have to navigate our own lives. Even in the worst of times we have choices as to how to adapt. While our fortunes may sometimes seem unfair we don’t have to sit and stew. We can heal from our blows even as doing so often takes so much effort.

`If I critique my own life I certainly see things than I might have handled better but I have crossed those bridges and simply need to learn how to be better from my failed experiences. Stewing over the past or whining about the unfairness of the present is a futile way to live. I prefer to keep moving forward with the same positive outlook that has helped me reach this moment in time. I have learned that challenges are never fun but somehow I always I find ways to deal with them.

All in all I have been most fortunate. The horrors in my life have been few compared to those that I see others facing. I tell myself that it is my duty not to simply ignore them. I am of the opinion that my good luck requires me to advocate for those who have been burdened much more than I have. That is how I can change the world. Wishful thinking is fruitless but caring about the fate of others is the key to a meaningful life. It balances our fate and provides a wonderful sense of the kind of control that we need to feel as though we really are in charge of our destinies.  

I am a fortunate soul. I have a nice home, a car, a pension, a loving husband, children and grandchildren who have made me proud, good health, food in my pantry, and friends who understand and accept me just as I am. I should be happy all of the time but I have a personality quirk that often leaves me in a state of profound sadness. I see suffering and unfairness all around me and I cannot just look the other way and pretend that all is right with the world as long as my own life is so good. 

I really don’t know when I became this way but I suspect that it coincided with my father’s death. I witnessed the profound grief of my thirty year old mother and then watched her pull herself together for the good of me and my brothers. To this very day I do not know how she found such strength but she did. She gave the most extraordinary gift to her children. She made us feel safe and always loved. The sacrifices that she made to accomplish this were huge and even as a child I understood her willingness to give her very life for us. 

My mother was strong and courageous and wise but she also had a soft spot for people. I saw tears flow down her cheeks whenever she witnessed unfairness that hurt others. She could not abide the idea that it was okay to just ignore the hungry, the sick, the homeless, the victims of violence. She actively did whatever possible to help them and she seemed to feel their pain in a most visceral way. 

I suppose that I felt good about my teaching profession because on a daily basis for many decades I was dedicated to the welfare of my students. Many of them were living unbelievably difficult lives. It was sometimes hard for me to believe that in the richest nation of the world there were actually people struggling as much as many of them did. I saw the effects of nativism and racism up close in the eyes of many of my students. I felt their pain and their want much like my mother always did with others. I felt humbled to be able to help them even in small ways. I rejoiced when they bloomed and found ways to move beyond the limitations of their circumstances.

I also understood that not all Americans were willing to accept them just as they were. I heard and read the taunts that demeaned them but I actually believed that they were the exception rather than the rule. Imagine my incredulous puzzlement when Donald Trump was elected president not once but twice. I had to accept the discomforting possibility that some Americans actually accept and like the horrific views of this vile man. How else can I explain that he seems to charm them with his hate filled ideas?

I’ve had people tell me that they just look beyond the horrific aspects about Trump because they think he is just a blowhard who will never follow through with his taunts. Then I see that he keeps proving them wrong. I wonder what it will take for them to disown him totally. Surely they see his lies, his ugliness, the violence that he suggests. Instead they tell me that I am the hater when I have never before in my life hated any individual or group until now. 

I cannot pretend that I don’t see the ugliness in Trump and some of his followers. I read their hideous comments about immigrants, gay and trans people, Muslims, progressives and even ordinary Democrats. When a good man is shot down in the the streets of Houston by ICE they revel in the idea that one less illegal immigrant has been removed. They can’t seem to muster sympathy for the family of this man. It is the lack of human decency that drives me to a sadness for our nation that I have never before experienced this deeply. 

I know that not everyone who voted for Trump agrees with what he has done but I expect all Americans to voice their concerns before it is too late. Just looking the other way and living life as though all is normal is only going to make the situation worse. It is only when we all join together in condemning what is happening that we have a chance to right the wrongs. I have always believed in the importance of speaking up for anyone who is being abused. I learned that from my mother. 

When boys were taunting a girl that they did not like by attempting to throw her into the deep end of a swimming pool even though she was screaming that she could not swim, I made them stop. When a principal was being unfair to the faculty I confronted her. When a student was being punished for something that was not her fault, I argued in her favor. I have continuously done this kind of thing not because I am somehow better than others or some kind of hero but just because it has been the right thing to do. 

I grieve for the people in the United States and in the world who are being bullied by our president. I wonder why the Republicans cannot seem to find the courage or voice to stop him. I grieve that we have a television station filled with untrue propaganda that is poisoning the minds of people who do not seem to understand the lies that they are being told. I grieve for the possibility that our democratic republic is being threatened by a man who has enriched himself by taking away assistance from the most vulnerable among us. 

I don’t want to grieve anymore. I want to celebrate that we the people of the United States have found our goodness once again. I hope beyond the evidence that I will soon see the signs that Trump is going to be stopped. My hope is focused on the November elections. That is when I will know whether or not we will be okay.

A couple of years ago my husband Mike and I traveled to Maine to help our granddaughter move from the apartment where she had lived for the summer to the house to which she was assigned for the coming school year. She had been attempting to move her belongings using a bicycle, the only form of transportation that she had for getting around Brunswick, Maine where her college, Bowdoin, was located. 

We turned her request into a good excuse for a road trip and were soon headed up north from Houston, Texas. Unfortunately the timing coincided with an international music festival that Bowdoin College sponsors each summer. People come from all over the world to enjoy a week of musical bliss. That meant that most of the hotels and motels were already booked so we had to do some searching before we found a motel on the edge of town that had one vacancy left. 

It was not exactly a five star residence. It fact it would have been a bit of a stretch to give it three stars but upon arriving we saw that it was clean and quiet and only a few minutes away from where we would meet up with our granddaughter each day. We felt fortunate to have a place to rest that seemed to just be old rather than run down.

The first thing we noticed as we were checking into our room was that there were a number of pickup trucks from out of state. A couple of them were from Texas. We soon learned that this motel was a haven for migrant workers who came to do construction jobs. Each afternoon they would arrive covered in sweat and dust. They would smile and nod their heads at us and once they reached the doors of their rooms they took off their work boots and left them outside so that they would not bring dirt into the room. Then they would quietly spend the evening relaxing and sleeping until it was time to leave for work the next morning before sunrise. We felt humbled by the work ethic that had made them our temporary neighbors. 

When I heard that yet another immigrant was killed by ICE this week I thought of those young men who were so devoted to a grueling routine that took them out to work before we had begun our daily adventures only to return just before dark each evening. Most of them spoke only enough English to get by but they were always pleasant when we encountered them. I saw that we have a workforce in our nation comprised of individuals from many parts of the world who have come to our nation not to cause trouble but to take on the jobs that most of us would not want to do. This has always been the case. 

Our nation began with slaves being forcefully brought to our shores to do the brutal work on plantations. They even built the White House. People came from China to forge the railroads. People from Ireland and Italy and Germany came to America looking for work. My own grandfather came from Slovakia to toil in fields and then ultimately work inside a meat packing plant. The riches of our nation were achieved with the hard work of immigrants from all over the world. Their stories have never ended. They changed the face of America even as the first generations were often treated with disdain. Somehow many of their descendants refuse to acknowledge that their ancestors were once treated with the same kind of ugly rejection that many of today’s immigrants experience. They speak of rigid adherence to laws as excuses for terrorizing today’s immigrants, many of whom are in our nation legally just like the poor soul who was killed in Maine on his way to work this week. 

Joan Sebastian Guerrero was an immigrant from Colombia with legal work permits. He was only twenty six and leaves behind a wife and a three year old child. He was going to work early in the morning when he was stopped by members of ICE who were actually searching for someone else. In the terror of the moment an agent shot into his car and fatally wounded him while his young child sat in the backseat. Once again the shooter claimed that he was attempting to protect people when it appeared that Mr, Guerrero was using his car as a weapon. 

On the one hand we have Americans who commend ICE for doing a job that is long overdue. They insist that people who are stopped should simply comply with ICE agents and they will not be harmed. On the other hand we know that many of the ICE officers were selected without much background information and with little training in law enforcement. They often travel in unmarked cars wearing masks without understanding that there are many better ways of enforcing laws without violence. All too often innocents who willingly follow ICE orders are sent away to detention centers before having opportunities to prove their legal status. Other times they are thrown to the ground and treated inhumanely. Just being subservient does not seem to insure their safety.

Most police departments run applicants through a series of psychological tests to determine how they might respond under stress. Those who show problems are not usually hired. The ones who are selected attend an academy for training that lasts much longer than what members of ICE are getting. Therein lie many of the problems that have ended in deadly encounters with ICE. Sadly I see no inclination to improve either the selection or training of ICE officers. Without many changes like taking off those masks, having visual identification, and using body cams nothing will change what is happening. I worry that the unreasonable deaths will continue until and unless the powers that be realize that they must to their utmost to insure that the unwarranted killings stop. So far those in charge only defend their incompetence and that of their agents. Maybe our votes in November can force a positive change if enough of us demonstrate that we demand improvements. Until that time I worry that we have only seen the tip of the iceberg of unwarranted deaths.