Author: Sharron Burnett

I remember my mother-in-law commenting not long before her death that her social calendar had become a series of reminders to visit doctors and attend funerals. She was only seventy six when she left this world but that was almost miraculous given that doctors had told her when she was only a teen that she would probably not live past her thirtieth birthday due to a heart defect that had been with her since birth. 

I was still young enough when she remarked about the fate of growing older to have little understanding of what her life had become. Now twenty years late I am beginning to understand. My social media is filled with reports of friends undergoing difficult surgeries and procedures that become the focus of their lives. Both my husband and I receive a constant stream of information telling us of the death of yet another high school classmate or the health battles of friends and family. We have reached the terrible moment of comparing our ailments in conversations with our peers. 

This year the annual wellness visits with our primary care physicians have led to a number of “due diligence” tests for the two of us. We have been to the second floor of the Methodist Hospital Outpatient Center so often that the guys who do the valet parking have begun greeting us like old friends. My calendar looks like it belongs to a social butterfly until one notices that most of the reserved dates and times focus on medical tests. It’s both a blessing and a nuisance that has me thinking of my sweet mother-in-law. 

So far both me and my husband have received a clean bill of health at each juncture and we appreciate that our doctors want to be certain that the little glitches that they observe in us are nothing serious, but I have grown weary of driving to the Houston Medical Center several times each week. Sometimes I am waiting for my husband while he endures MRIs and biopsies and other times I am the one getting venous doppler exams on my lower extremities. While I wait I observe the people who sit with us, sometimes looking very concerned. I create little stories in my head about them, remembering details of the furrows in their brows and the looks of anxiety in their eyes. 

I realize how much real suffering is taking place on a daily basis all over the world and marvel that we are so often totally unaware of it. I find myself feeling humbled and thankful for my own good fortune in being only minutes away from such incredible medical services and doctors. It has all made me far more aware of how it must feel to be engaged in an extended battle for good health. I see the world a bit differently now than I did when my mother-in-law attempted to explain what it was like to spend a lifetime being told that her heart might fail her at any moment. Little wonder that she told the same stories about her life which was focused on making it from one year to the next. 

I have a friend who will undergo surgery soon and a cousin who is recovering from a broken hip. Another friend has met the halfway point of her cancer treatments and yet another recently completed his schedule of treatments. My sister-in-law is struggling to reclaim her life after a major injury and my brother is hoping that his Parkinson’s disease will progress slowly. The health issues of people that I know are cropping up all around me and suddenly I feel a new sense of compassion and understanding of how isolating and frightening it is to wait for a diagnosis. 

Aging and ultimately death is inevitable for each of us. While I often boast that my own life has been so full that I would not want anyone to grieve for me if I were to suddenly die, I have recently felt the human desire to hang onto life just a bit longer. I realize that facing the thought of leaving all that we love behind is quite daunting. so when I see the fear in the eyes of someone whose prognosis is uncertain I have a better sense of how awful it is for them. We like to believe that we will be courageous in such moments but the reality is that bad news shakes us to our core, especially when it is totally unexpected. 

I grow wiser as I age and sometimes think of the younger me and wish that I had learned what I now know just a bit earlier. I think that I would have visited my older relatives and friends a more often. I might have listened to their stories and concerns with more interest. Perhaps I would have slowed down just to be with them rather rushing around doing tasks that might have waited for my attention. 

All is good with me for now but life has taught me that every single hour is uncertain and we would do well to make the most of each of our days. If there is a battle for justice to be embraced then we should fight for it. If we keep wanting to see a certain person, we should not put off making it happen. Each of us will one day become the dust that we work so hard to remove from our homes. Perhaps a better use of our time would be to schedule time with someone we love before they are sitting on the second floor of an outpatient clinic waiting for test results that will define a shorter stay in the world with us. None of us want to feel regret that we never managed to find the time for someone who needed us. Schedule some love today. 

I recently read an editorial from Mitch Daniels whose biography includes being the Governor of Indiana and the President of Purdue University. In the opinion piece he wonders if the world is headed for an epochal change in the next ten years or so. He points out the cyclical nature of history in which exceedingly difficult times impact every person on the globe followed by a major shift forward in how we operate together as humans sharing the same planet. He notes that these kind of convulsions arrive about every eighty to one hundred years. He uses the revolutions that created the United States and democracies in France and England as an example of such seismic transformations. In the more modern era he relates how two world wars and a devastating depression led to the dramatic changes of the New Deal. 

It is an interesting theory to consider that we humans have to endure cataclysmic events before we become willing to work together to pull ourselves out of the depths. it’s an idea that has been bandied about for centuries. Nonetheless I wonder why the shared experience of a worldwide pandemic did not have the effect of helping us to see more of what we share in common with people across the globe rather than ending up creating so much division. Is it because we have not yet suffered enough to realize that it is in our best interest as humans to work together rather than war amongst ourselves? 

Do we really have to put our hands into a fire and get burned before we realize the danger of our conflicts with each other? Surely we are learned enough to know that the be all and end all of existence does not lie in constantly competing to one up each other. Instead the most glorious moments are those in which we set forth to champion the good of everyone. It does not have to be a dreary experience requiring us to put in more effort or more of our wealth to level the playing field for everyone. We don’t even have to aim for perfection in creating our goals for the world. What we do have to be willing to do is share our ideas, talents and resources in manner that dignifies the existence of every person. We have to focus more on the concept that all people are created equal and less on the adoration of money and power in the hands of the few. 

We would do well to consider how our actions will impact the future rather than doing things the same old ways because we won’t be around to witness that future. A bit of sacrifice, generosity and understanding would serve the world better than constantly fighting over the resources that we have. We have to ask ourselves what we might do not just to better our own lives, but also those of the less fortunate. 

I watched a movie on Netflix about the disaster in Bhopal, India in 1984. In December of that year an explosion inside the Union Carbide plant built in the middle of the town spewed forth a deadly gas that killed thousands of people and produced devastating effects that have lasted to this very day. What happened there was an example of hubris and greed.

Because the production of a pesticide known as MIC did not result in projected sales the plant essentially became a neglected storage facility of a chemical that was known to be highly toxic and deadly. With faulty and failing equipment it was almost inevitable that there would one day be a disaster and yet worship of the bottom line kept the company executives from spending dollars for the needed repairs and training of the workers. The resulting catastrophe was literally a crime against humanity, but few of the players were ever held responsible for what had happened. In fact, the abandoned plant still sits rusting alongside the shanties where people live. No clean up of the land or water has ever been initiated. Meanwhile the world simply looks the other way and shrug its shoulders as though it is none of our business.  

Such attitudes toward our planet and its people are as toxic and deadly as a cloud of MIC gas. When we ignore suffering in this world we are complicit. We no longer have the excuse that we just did not know what was happening beyond our own neighborhoods. We get the news twenty four hours a day. We see the inhumanity in living color. Pretending that it is not there should no longer be an option. We really do need to ask ourselves what we might do the help with the cause. Perhaps that would mean sharing a bit more of our wealth or offering our talents or even our time to do the right thing. Mostly it would mean being willing to work together and to compromise and sacrifice as needed. 

It’s doubtful that we will ever create a world without war or poverty or injustice but we have certainly made strides over time. We can’t just pat ourselves on the back when we address one problem and then sit back and ignore others. As humans we should be constantly engaged in an effort to move toward a more equitable and peaceful world. It begins by repairing fissures in our own backyard and supporting good people whose intention is to work for everyone rather than a single group. We shun anyone who strives to keep us at odds or we may face the kind of cataclysmic problems that Mitch Daniels predicts. We have the opportunity to change our history. Why would would pass on such a challenge? We are not bound to repeat history. We can create the kind of place where we all want to live without being pushed by horrific events.  

With all due respect and apologies for anyone who has a February birthday I have to admit that the second month of the year has always been dreary and difficult for me. Not even Valentine’s day is enough to boost my flagging morale in the shortest month of the year. Honoring Martin Luther King, Jr. inspires me and reminds me of the hardships that many people have endured but the often grey days of this month induce a kind of malaise in me and make me wonder how anyone is inspired during the seemingly endless rollercoaster ride of ups and downs of sunshine followed by grey skies. 

I find myself becoming obsessed with worry during February. By this time I have abandoned many of my resolutions for the new year and faced the realities that there will be few changes that last as long as I planned. I tend to navigate back to tried and true routines that have proven to work for me over time. I long for days spent working in my garden when nature bursts forth in full bloom. I can only take so much of the long sleep before the glories of March that has forever been one of my favorite times of the year. 

As both a student and a teacher February was always a tiresome month when it felt as though I was never going to be able to accomplish all of the academic demands that had to be met by the end of the spring semester. Keeping myself on task was always a challenge as I daydreamed about travels to exotic places and a time when I might lift my nose from the grindstone of responsibility. 

February always seems to be the time when I get really sick. It is the month when I endured the measles when I was nine years old. I’ve been knocked on my backside by flu or bronchitis more than once in the shortened month. There is something about the timing that daunts me each year. I look ahead to an end of the grind and it feels so far away. I know that my students and my colleagues shared my dip in enthusiasm and productivity in February as well. We often discussed how difficult everything felt in that month.

I have often thought of how wonderful it would be if we were like the bears who hibernate in the winter season. I don’t think I would want to miss the whole of winter but it would be nice to slumber through most of February just to get over the hump in those last days when the weather and the lack of longer days feel almost endless. February takes the resolve of January and tests it mightily. 

I’ve always managed to maintain the pace in February, but internally I have dreamed of chucking it all many a time just before the first signs of spring rescue my optimism and determination to enjoy this ride that we call life. I’ve often attempted to understand exactly what it is about February that vexes me so, because I actually enjoy rainy days and staying inside with a good book. I suspect that it mostly has to do with anxiety about the long stretch of the year ahead. I suddenly panic each February with thoughts that this may indeed be the time when I am finally no longer able to overcome all of the craziness of the world around me with a smile on my face. February just never has worked for me. 

I’m hoping that my resolution to join my neighbors in a daily walk around the neighborhood will change the routine of past Februaries. I’m doing my best to adjust my attitude. I wonder if I have allowed February to trigger the negative side of my feelings for too many years. Instead I should perhaps view the month as a time to contemplate possibilities rather than worry about the mundane. If I fill my days by looking outward at the needs of others perhaps I will experience a change of heart. Maybe that’s what Valentine’s Day and February should be all about.

When I think about Martin Luther King, Jr. I see a man who was often conflicted about how to proceed in his work and his life. He might easily have drifted back into a comfortable private life rather than enduring the slings and arrows that ultimately led to his assassination. He had moments of longing to run from his responsibilities. He was very human like the rest of us, but he also understood the importance of the work that he had to do. He stumbled for a time but always got back into the battle for the civil rights of all humans. He had his February moments and overcame them. Perhaps honoring him in the month of February should be all of the inspiration that any of us need to keep moving forward into the fulfillment of our dreams. 

So I’m getting up from my pity couch and keeping on keeping on. It’s what we humans do even in the grey days of February. March will soon come storming in like a lion and will lead us to the lambs of spring and the reawakening of our optimism. Life will indeed be better if we choose not to allow it to bring us down. 

 “What hurts the victim most is not the cruelty of the oppressor, but the silence of the bystander.” – Elie Wiesel

I got into trouble during the last presidential election. I made my views too well known. I angered people and lost longtime friendships and relationships. I still grieve that some did not understand that my fervor was never about myself or meant to hurt others. It was simply my way of making observations that seemed so clear to me. I was warning them of dangers that I saw. I had hoped that some of them would understand my love for the United States of America and all of its people, but sadly for some I became an enemy, a naive communist who was just the opposite of what I thought that I was. 

I decided that I would be more circumspect in making my beliefs public in the current political maelstrom. I admitted that I had not changed the viewpoints of anyone with my editorial blogs. I wanted to go under the radar again lest I inadvertently ruffle the feelings of someone that I love. I felt that my personal ideals had been mostly ignored and had at times been interpreted as deluded or even insulting. I was determined to be mostly silent, but something happened that made me realize that silence hurts innocent people and that I must never give up attempting to alert people to the cruelty and oppression that is threatening our beautiful democracy and the hard fought freedoms that it has engendered. 

I was a child of the Cold War. My parents endured the Great Depression and World War II. My father was a history buff and my mother was someone whose parents had fled from oppression in their country that would one day be called Slovakia. I grew up with truths about how powerful figures use the good will and fears of people to enhance their own self interests. My teachers taught me how to watch for propaganda. They showed me how to think critically and how to analyze conflicting arguments. They engaged me in deep analyses of  human behavior. My grandfather helped me to see the long arc of history and its march toward progress, but also the ugliness that can stain the good that humans have achieved.

I don’t claim to have all of the answers but gravely fear for my nation in its present state. I know that when I speak of the issues that threaten our democracy I am preaching to the choir and alienating those who do not share my views. The reasonable thing to do would be to be silent and yet I wonder if silence is the fertilizer for the growth of authoritarian nations like Russia. If enough of us fear speaking the about what we believe to be true are we in a sense complicit in hurting the people around us?

The death of Alexei Navalny in a prison in Siberia awakened my sense that we should never simply look the other way when we perceive wrongdoing. He was perhaps the loudest and most important voice against the authoritarian policies of Putin and his government. He was poisoned once before and nearly died which only intensified his critiques of the current state of Russia. He might have stayed safely abroad but he understood that to keep his truths alive he would have to return to his native country. He clearly realized that he would be in danger but nonetheless kept his voice alive for the sake of his countrymen. 

Navalny predicted his own death. He told his followers that when he was gone they needed to continue to protest the actions of Putin and his loyal followers. He was a hero not unlike the founders of our nation who might have been hanged for their revolutionary beliefs. He gave his life for his love of Russia and his hope that one day it would be a land ruled by democratic principals. Navalny inspired me. 

I am but a small voice making noise in the wilderness. I do not believe that my words will necessarily have any impact on the way others believe but I know that I must be true to my principals by being unafraid to speak them. If I allow fear to guide me I am admitting to defeat of my ideals. I truly believe that the United States of America can return to it’s greatness but not of the variety described by Donald Trump and his followers. 

We have aspired to be a nation that welcomes a diversity of people and ideas. We have been at our best when we allow all voices an opportunity to speak their minds. We are most likely to solve our problems when we do not avoid speaking of our history with honesty. We do not want to turn back to a time when one race, one religion and one sex dominated life. We have moved past the idea that only one group of people are worthy of making decisions for the rest of us. It should be okay to take down memorials and flags honoring those who attempted to destroy our union. We need to talk openly about what happens when we rank people from best to worst or plant a seed that some among us need to be spurned simply for being different. We must be certain that Donald Trump and those who support his lies should not hold important offices. 

Our democracy is on the precipice of danger as are democracies in Europe and around the world. Our upcoming election is not about which old man should hold office but about who will keep the principles of democracy alive and who will kill them. The choice is clear but if too many among us simply sit this one silently out the man who loves dictators like Putin will be in charge. Trump has already bragged that he will be vindictive toward those who have voiced opposition to him. He will turn on patriots like Liz Cheney. Anyone who has ever pushed back with be at his mercy. Do we really want that to happen to our country? Do we want to create prisoners like Navalny in our own land? I think not. We have to use our voices at the polls this November by voting not for Trump and Republicans who have been afraid to cross him, but for a Joe Biden who was duly elected in 2020 and who guided us through some of the most difficult times in recent history. He may be old and we may not agree with everything that he believes but he is a champion for democracy and freedom. There is no more important issue!

There…I said it!

One of my brothers read an article that touted the predictive power of birth order. Essentially the claim was that people act in particular ways depending on when they became members of a family. Eldest children are a kind of experiment for first time parents who may or may not use the best nurturing skills in the initial trial run. As time goes by and more children arrive their techniques become less tentative and more relaxed. This has a lifetime effect on the behavior of the various siblings that can actually be generalized from one family to another, or so some who study such things believe. Then there are the only children like my husband, Mike, who is everything and everyone all at once in the family experience. 

While I seriously doubt that the dynamics of raising a child can be so easily replicated from one family to another, I have found that there are indeed interesting differences from one child to another that appear to share a few commonalities with others that seem to result from birth order or number of children in the family. Then there are the unusual outliers like twins and the not to be eliminated differences between boy and girl babies. In fact, there are so many possible reasons for the kind of people that we ultimately become that adhering to any theory claiming to predict who we will be seems a bit silly, and yet…

As a teacher I was often able to determine which of my students were the eldest in their families and which were the youngest. While it was not always the case, there seemed to be some merit to the idea that first born children tended to feel more pressure to be role models and protectors of their siblings. They sensed that their parents had certain expectations of them that they were almost duty bound to fulfill. There was a seriousness about them that was far less likely to be present in their happy go lucky youngest of the family peers. 

Of course we are all individuals who have been raised by individuals. So many factors influence who we are including the makeup of our families. I think of myself as a kind of strange hybrid because I began life inside a very traditional family with a mother and father but before I was even a teenager I lived in a single parent home without a father. For my brothers the impact of this reality was even stronger given that they barely remember having a man around the house. I suspect that the loss of our father was far more important in influencing our development than the order in which we were born. Nonetheless there are indeed traces of birth order generalizations in all three of us. 

I have always felt that I was born to be the responsible exemplar for my family. Throughout my lifetime I have believed that it was my duty to watch over my younger brothers and be a helpmate to my mother. That seriousness only grew stronger upon my father’s death. Somehow I thought that I should set aside my silliness and demonstrated that I understood how to be responsible and reliable. It became my way of live without much thought as to why I believed that way. It also made me a person who tried to control anything that seemed to be out of order. It made me an excellent teacher, but perhaps a bit too demanding as person with whom to live from day to day. 

I like order in my world which I admit is not always easy to achieve. I do my best to plan ahead, design alternative ways of doing things in an emergency situation. I get up early and stay up late making sure that my family is ready for any eventuality. I have routines that I prefer to follow rather than randomly approaching each day with little thought of what I will do. My personality works quite well in a profession that demands constant attention to even the tiniest details but it can run amok when the confluence of events change the calculus of what I need to do. 

I suppose that who I am and how I act is the product of thousands of factors, just as it is with every person. The order of my birth plays only a very small part in the person I have become. Thousands upon thousands of interactions have left their marks on each of us. We are products of cultures, religious beliefs, educational experiences, family dynamics, places where we have lived and even the habits that we either consciously or unconsciously developed. 

My husband and his father and I sit down each afternoon just before I prepare dinner. It is an alien concept to me but one that my father-in-law has followed for decades. In those moments we talk about all kinds of things and I realize through those conversations how incredibly different each of our upbringings were. Our perspectives on the world and its people vary and the greatest difference is between me and my father-in-law. I realize as we discuss things that his worldview and mine are products of the totality of our interactions which could not have been more different. 

So it is with all of us and therein lie the seeds of discontent with one another. It is impossible to overlay our own wishes on everyone else in the world. If we really understood that simple fact we might be less inclined to attempt to condemn and control ideas from people who are nothing like ourselves. Instead we would realize that the variety that we encounter is not just inevitable, but it is also a good thing. We do not need to be missionaries intent on changing people. If we accept them as they are and earnestly attempt to understand how and why their points of view developed we are far more likely to live in peace with them. 

Embracing our diversity is quite logical if we consider how each of us come to be the individuals that we are. It would be foolish to believe that there is some magical way of producing the same traits and ideas in everyone. It would be a terrible thing if all of us became exactly the same. How gray and ugly our landscape would be if all of the colors and differing textures were not there! How lucky we are to bring so many differences to each other! Nobody wants to have oatmeal all of time and sometimes even a control freak like me benefits from throwing all responsibility to the wind and embarking on an unplanned and adventurous day. Celebrate what makes us who we are!