Author: Sharron Burnett

When I was still in my vibrant forties I remember a friend worrying about his mother who lived alone in Detroit. He had years before made his way to Houston and amazing work at NASA. He found love, married and settled down to work and have a family. He was an only child who visited his mother often. As she grew older and less and less able to care for herself he noticed how the once indomitable woman had become continually anxious. His conversations with her more often than not revolved around the many fears that consumed her. He learned that most of her information came from watching television news programs almost all day long. He wondered if she would be as convinced that the world was falling apart if she were simply to limit her viewing time or even give it up entirely. He believed that much of her angst had been created by the continual drone of reporters hawking their sensational stories. 

I often think about those conversations with my friend as I too enter the later years of my life and hear a constant drone of bad news from the media. Unlike my friend’s mother I rarely watch the news programs. Instead I get my information from news websites on my computer each morning and then I spend the rest of my day in activities that keep my mind free from a day long cycle of worry. Still, I have experienced many nights of insomnia in which I have a tendency to blow up the darkness of news reports more than I should. It is then that I wonder if all of us are suffering from a hyperbolic news overload. 

I like to be informed, but there is a tendency in the press to grab onto one topic and repeat stories about it so much that it begins to feel more like a commercial than an opinion free recitation of facts…who, what, when, where, how. Political bents seem to slip into even the very best reporting and often those without a discernible motive are unable to command the attention of the public. In a sense we are the customers of the news who are not just allowing, but actually encouraging commentaries rather than reporting. By our preferences we have unwittingly turned the news into entertainment that thrives on keeping us afraid. 

It has been duly noted that our young are presently enduring an epidemic of depression. Little wonder they feel that way when they see the adults continually carping with one another unable to solve problems with a willingness to compromise for the sake of everyone concerned. Battles are big news. They sell papers and provide higher ratings on television. They bring attention to individuals whose thoughts my otherwise be ignored. We have become a world of audacious people vying with one another for the stage and a voice. 

There was a time when real problem solving took place in society. Bullies and liars were given little or no berth. Honorable men and women tackled real problems rather than engaging in culture wars. They considered differing solutions and worked for a common good, not a particular base of voters. The news desks were manned by people like Walter Cronkite who only occasionally voiced his personal beliefs, once when he cried when announcing that President Kennedy had died and another time when he expressed his frustration with the ongoing war in Vietnam. 

Before my mother-in-law died last year she watched the news most of the day. When we visited her she would talk of nothing else but the fears that the reporting had created in her. She kept her home dark and locked up tight as though it was a castle under siege. My father-in-law too seemed unable to trust anyone because of what he saw and read about the state of the world. It reminded me of my friend’s mother who had become a prisoner in her home because of her worries. 

There are so many people suffering from the toxic influence of news services pretending to be factual when they are actually pits of propaganda. They drone on incessantly infecting the minds of good folks who believe that we are on a precipice of destruction. They push us into conflicting tribes and encourage us to be wary of one another. The results of such propagandizing are frightening.

We hear stories of a young man who accidentally knocks on the door of the wrong house being shot in the head. We learn that two women using a driveway to turn around are attacked. A child whose ball rolls onto the wrong lawn becomes a target of fear. People are inside their homes loaded with arms, listening to dire stories of marauders and then we are shocked with they take aim at innocents because they fear that they are under attack. 

I recently contacted the county health department because the swimming pool next door has become a toxic danger to the neighborhood. I had spoken with the owners multiple times before making that call and they just smiled and said that they would do something to fix the problems. After a time as the pool sat in a deplorable condition they no longer answered the door. When I came by to ask them if there had been any progress in eliminating the brackish water that had become home to bullfrogs and who knows what else I was greeted by silence from inside the home. When nothing was done after five months I call the county health department that assured me that they would take care of the problem. 

Recently I received a message from someone at the health department. She had come by to check on the pool but nobody answered the door at the home. She explained that she does not have the authority to even walk to the backyard of the home to take photos, so she wanted to come to my yard and attempt to learn what was happening next door by peering through the cracks of my wooden fence. In essence she admitted that she was afraid of wandering around my neighbors’ property. Since nobody can’t really see anything from my yard without climbing a ladder it seems that the health department will be unable to issue any citations or orders for cleaning the scum and mosquito filled pool. In other words, this is where we are today. Everyone is afraid, even the authorities.

I would hope that like other issues that our world has faced this era of fear mongering will only be a phase. I like to think that we will tire of the constant bickering fear-filled reports. Somehow we will find our way again to a reasonable way of living together with each other. When we do it will represent a good step toward helping our young to believe once again that we are leaving them a compassionate world of opportunities rather than a cesspool of problems. Perhaps the sooner we do this, the better everyone will be. 

Each one of us is unique. We may share DNA with people whose branches on our family trees are far away from us, and even more with our siblings, but in the final analysis our differences are clear. Every person is a beautiful individual whose appearance and ways of thinking have been affected by both nature and nurture. 

We now have a better idea of how our bodies work than at any other time in history, but we are only slowly learning about the effects that our brains have on who we are, who we eventually become. As a teacher I knew that each of my students learned in different ways. In fact, I understood this from my own experiences as a student. I had to have both visual and kinesthetic activities for concepts to make sense to me. I had exhibited a bit of dyslexia in the first grade and my brilliant teacher taught me techniques for overcoming my inability to differentiate between certain letters, numbers and patterns. I also developed a unique way of studying over time in which I would pace back and forth in my bedroom talking out loud as though I was teaching someone whatever I was trying to learn. 

We know full well that most of us are born with both imperfections and unique talents. In addition to my learning differences I have fine thin hair and an almost nonexistent chin. I had to learn to deal with each of these things because they made me a bit different from what we call the norm. My physical and mental challenges were mostly benign compared to some that other humans must endure, but they reminded me to always be accepting and loving toward all people, not just those who look and think like I do. I may not fully understand the ways of some of my fellow humans but until I have lived in their shoes it would be truly arrogant of me to question the ways that they have chosen to adapt to life and find happiness. 

I once attended a weekend retreat for women that was sponsored by my church. I am admittedly not well suited for sitting and listening for long periods of time, nor do I do well when I have to sit quietly meditating. I wanted to go to the event nonetheless because I felt that it was time for me to adjust my thinking just a bit so that I might better understand others. It turned out to be one of those times when I was challenged to look at the world from a different perspective. I am all the better for my willingness to do so.

One of the speakers in particular fascinated me because he chose to address the issue of sexuality. At first he made me a bit uncomfortable in his openness about the topic, but he was calm and obviously not of a mind to shock us. He simply pointed out that our sexuality was meant to be a natural and beautiful thing, but also an individual thing just as with other aspects of our humanity. He challenged us to open our Bibles and find each of the times that Jesus spoke about sexuality in his sermons or conversations. He wanted to know how often Jesus described the only forms of sexuality that we should exhibit.

We were hard pressed to find much of anything that seemed related to sexuality in the words of Jesus. In fact, we saw through this man’s guidance that Jesus was mostly about love and accepting people as they were. It gave me a whole new perspective on issues of sexuality. I saw that as long as love and respect is present in any relationships they are good, not ugly. 

Those who study our brains and our anatomy are confirming that there are real differences between how we think and how our bodies work. There is a kind of normal curve that denotes whether any aspect of our physiology or psychology is average or different. We have no problem understanding that when it comes to intelligence there are people who have exceptionally high or low intelligence quotients, while most of us fall within an average continuum. Some of us are exceptionally healthy or beautiful while others struggle with health problems and societal judgements of our physical appearance. We tend to easily rank and accept such differences from the so called norm with every aspect of our humanity with the exception of sexuality. In fact, there are those who seem to believe that there are only two sexes, male or female, only one way of loving, heterosexual. Anything else in their way of thinking is deviant, a blasphemy. When I hear them I wonder how it would even be possible to have such vast difference between every other aspect of our humanness but not in our sexuality. Even without evidence from science and medicine it should be clear that it is unlikely that we will all be the same in our sexual relationships and thinking. 

I don’t have to live another person’s reality to know that it would be foolish to assume that each of us is merely a rubber stamp of all others. We can easily see our different shades of skin and hair and eyes. We hear the unique sounds of our voices and languages. We watch some among us rise to the level of titans in athletics or music or mathematics. We accept that we are of course very different in every possible aspect but then question those who insist on a different kind of sexuality.

Nobody forces a klutz like me to endure athletic challenges that are discomforting. Nobody questions the fact that some people despise having to write essays or complete complex mathematical calculations. We all know that our comfort levels with any aspect of life tend to depend heavily on our natural abilities and our thinking. Why should we force our own limited understandings on others even when it comes to sexuality? Why can’t we simply live and let live? Why can’t we just love like Jesus so beautifully urged us to do? Why don’t we believe his simple examples of how to treat our fellow humans?

We can’t legislate sexuality any more than we can legislate that only those with blond hair and blues eyes should be our models for beauty. If we take the time to form relationships with those who differ greatly from ourselves we usually learn that good people come in every conceivable form. We begin to accept our human differences as being normal and natural and we ultimately learn to love ourselves and others who are not like us. Instead of turning away from those courageous enough to honestly tell us how they feel, we would do far better to get to know and understand them than to fear and humiliate them. We might find that we are more alike than we might have thought. We will begin to love our differences.

I enjoyed my eighth grade year save for my mathematics class which is somewhat ironic given that I would one day become a math teacher. I found myself totally lost but still making good grades in the class. Somehow I was able to fake it, but I really never had a genuine understanding of the concepts. I remember mostly being frightened of my math teacher who often sported aviator glasses and rarely seemed to smile. I’d come home and seek help from my mother who did her best to demystify the various processes. Eventually I would simply lock myself in my bedroom, pore over the examples in my textbook and teach myself the rubrics without ever really making the connections with what I was doing and the real world. I needed to understand the “why’s” and nobody was around to explain such things to me. That would happen later in my life.

The rest of my teachers were fabulous and I enjoyed their classes and their differing methods  of conveying information. Because I have always enjoyed writing I imagined myself as a journalist and dreamed of one day writing articles for newspapers and magazines. My teacher, Mrs. Getz, intrigued me because she often spoke of the challenges that dedicated writers must  consider. One of my favorite moments with her involved a lesson on proof reading papers before turning them in to her. She spoke of the incredible process that a group undertook in creating a new Bible. She said that literally dozens of dedicated souls had read and reread and corrected every possible flaw that might have crept into the sacred text. When the books were finally printed and ready for sale someone not even associated with the massive project picked up a copy, opened it and read, “I the beginning…” I never forgot that story and it makes me laugh to this very day.

Mrs. Colby was still teaching science and still as excited about the space program as ever. In February of my final year before high school she rolled a television standing on a tall cart into our classroom and let us watch John Glenn orbit the earth. We were all giddy over that accomplishment and somehow it made the future seem so exciting, especially since much of the pioneering work took place not far from where we sat in that classroom. In fact, we all knew people who were employed by NASA in those days. While I watched the work of brilliant engineers come to fruition, my brother Mike continued to dream of one day being part of the efforts to reach out into space. His mathematical abilities were already becoming apparent to his teachers and his inventiveness was stunning. I often imagined the kind of incredible conversations that he and our father might have had.

Pat continued to bring sheer delight to our family. He had Daddy’s love of humor and like our father, he collected friends easily. He was also a promising athlete, able to run like the wind, pitch like a big leaguer and adapt to virtually any sport quickly. He was quick witted, creative and a people magnet. In many ways he and Mike were becoming an amalgam of our father, each developing similar interests and talents that they shared with the father they would never really know. 

I enjoyed my stint as Captain of the Twirlers on the drill team and met lots of good friends along the way. My mother had always wanted to be a twirler herself but never had the opportunity to take the lessons and learn the skills. She drove me back and forth to lessons with Yvonne McCutchin at a Houston City Park while also teaching school, taking care of the house and family business, attending my brothers’ ball games, serving as the Historian of the church Women’s Club and enjoying fun evening for herself in a bowling league. While I took her efforts for granted at the time I now wonder where she got all of her energy.

The school year ended with the May tradition of honoring the Blessed Virgin. The annual event always involved the eighth grade class in a ceremony dedicated to the mother of Jesus. I was surprisingly chosen by my fellow students to be part of a special group that crowned Our Lady with flowers. Mama was so excited, but I was simply ready to move up to high school. It was the graduation ceremony that brought me the most joy, especially when they awarded me with a one year scholarship to Mt. Carmel High School which was located right next door. 

Grandpa and Grandma Little came to town to witness my transition from junior high school as did all of my aunts and uncles. After the ceremony we had a party at our house where Grandpa presented me with a book called Great Lives, Great Deeds. In the inscription that he wrote on the title page he challenged me to make my life one of integrity and good works. Somehow I felt that he was speaking to me as he knew my father might have done. I cherish that book to this very day and often joke that if my house were on fire it would be one of the first things I would grab on my way out the door. 

Lynda’s mother, Mrs. Barry, gave me the first perfume that I had ever possessed. It was Estee Lauder Youth Dew and it made me feel just a more mature than my image in the mirror had done. It would become one of my all time favorite scents and I continue to wear. it often. Aunt Polly and Uncle Jack gave me a 1962 Proof Set of coins and Mama presented me with a watch. To my delight I received lots of cash which I saved for my first year in high school. My graduation was the first really big celebration and gathering since Daddy had died. Somehow I felt that he was present and that he approved of how well all of us had done. 

Each year there is always a potential for a hurricane in Houston, Texas. The city is only fifty odd miles from the Gulf Coast and while it gets a slightly muted version of the wind and rain that hits the coastline, such storms can be deadly. Going through one is a frightening experience. From June to October those of us born and raised near the Gulf Coast know how important it is to be prepared for the potential of devastating weather. So it was in September of 1961, when hurricane Carla appeared to be tracking to the area. 

Our home on Belmark Street had not been tested against high winds and devastating rain so Mama was worried about enduring a hurricane alone. Sensing her anxiety Aunt Polly and Uncle Jack insisted that we all relocate to their home until the danger from the hurricane had passed. Aunt Valeria also decided to join us there because her husband, our Uncle Dale, was called to maintain the operations at the Shell refinery where he worked. Ours would be an adventure shared with our cousins.

We helped Mama “batten the hatches” as she called it, gathering up anything in the yard that would blow away and cause damage, securing and protecting the windows of the house and setting aside water and nonperishable food for the aftermath when we might be without electricity for an uncertain amount of time. Mike, Pat and I packed our bags, put our pillows and blankets in the car and headed gleefully to Aunt Polly’s place unfazed by the potential of the storm which was about to wreak havoc on our city.

Aunt Polly lived on Alberta Street in a neighborhood near St. Peter’s Catholic Church where I had spent my first grade school year. I liked her house because it was located near a drainage ditch that afforded us kids hours of fun exploring and creating make believe adventures. There was also a set of stairs in the house that lead to the attic where Uncle Jack had installed flooring so that provided us with a gigantic playroom. Best of all was the den at the back of the house where Uncle Jack spent evenings watching westerns and really good television programs that our mother seemed to dislike. I knew that our stay over was going to be tons of fun with our cousins and good viewing with our uncle.

Aunt Polly and Uncle Jack had two sons, Jack and Andy, Jack was only a few months younger than I was and Andy was a bit older than Mike. We never failed to have fun playing with the two of them who always seemed to have great ideas for passing the time. Aunt Valerie brought our cousin, Ingrid, who was a year older than I was. She was always beautiful with blue eyes and hair that curled in lovely ringlets. She had just started her first year in high school so she seemed to be far more sophisticated than the rest of us. I was in awe of her and in some ways thought of her as a fabulous big sister. With all of us gathered together the hurricane watch would be more like a party than an escape from possible danger.

Aunt Polly had recently purchased a piano which quickly drew our attention. Jack showed us how to play Heart and Soul in duet form and before long we were taking turns filling the house with beautiful music, at least that is how it sounded to us. Our parents put up with our concert for a time but eventually grew weary of our banging at the keys and demanded that we go upstairs to find something to entertain ourselves. Back then I could not imagine why they were not enchanted by our musicality but as an adult I wonder if I would have had as much patience as they did before pulling the plug on our piano recital.

The expanse of the upstairs attic room was incredible. Most of the area had flooring saved for the edges along the perimeter. In those dark corners boxes and rarely used paraphernalia like suitcases and Christmas decorations lay waiting for occasional use. We were free to enjoy ourselves to our hearts’ content as long as we did not enter the far unfloored reaches of the area. We played board games and ran the electric train that belonged to my cousins. Then we attempted to design a more mature version of hide and seek that allowed us to hide anywhere in the house or the attic. 

I decided to be daring and disobedient by finding a place to conceal myself behind a pile of suitcases near the restricted edge. It worked well as I went undiscovered over and over again. Eventually I took the time to glance at the stacks of seldom used items nearby while waiting for my opportunity to get home free. As my eye scanned the area I went into shock when I saw what appeared to be a wooden leg. I immediately realized that it was the prosthetic limb that had belonged to my Uncle Bob. I was so stunned at seeing it that I screamed and gave myself away. Luckily my cousins and brothers all agreed to hide my lawless behavior from the adults as long as I agreed to be “it” for several consecutive turns. 

Eventually the air outside filled with the smell of the ocean and the winds began to blow harder than I had ever before witnessed. My cousin Jack took the opportunity to climb a tree in his backyard and ride the wind as the branches moved back and forth. We were having a great time watching his bravery when our parents insisted that it was time to lock ourselves safely inside because the hurricane was heading our way. 

Uncle Jack entertained us with his jokes and stories while our mothers looked more and more concerned as the windows rattled and seemed on the verge of breaking. Meanwhile the rain pelted the roof and objects of all sorts flew against the outer walls of the house. What we thought of as exciting seemed to scare our mothers. Perhaps that is because they had witnessed other hurricanes before. We were novices and had little idea of the destruction that was to come. 

Once the storm has passed over us we went outside to survey the damage. Huge tree limbs lay on the ground from fallen trees. Items that belonged to someone else littered the yards. Water stood in the street and filled the ditch out back. On television we saw images of shattered buildings and boats sitting in fields far aways from where they had been moored. It was a deadly hurricane that ranked as one of the worst to hit our area in decades. Mama and Aunt Valeria both worried about what they might find upon returning to our respective neighborhoods.

We would wait for a time before attempting to venture back home to our house. Mama worried that debris and high water might block our way. When we finally did make that journey we were stunned to find fallen utility poles blocking our path and high water that lapped over our tires threatening to find its way inside our car. There were businesses whose roofs had blown off and huge signs that lay on the ground. Hardly any of the traffic lights were working properly so Mama drove slowly and carefully.

The journey that should have only taken about twenty minutes, took well over an hour. At times our mother wondered if she should simply turn back to Aunt Polly’s house because the destruction that we witnessed was so bad. Nonetheless we keep moving forward and finally reached our street that was still filled with water. When we got to our home we all let out a sigh of relief. It looked just as it had when we left. It had weathered the storm without damage of any kind. Just as Uncle Jack had boasted when Mama bought it, we saw that it was a good strong house that would serve us well for many years. It was home and we felt wonderful to be back. We were okay once again.

It felt odd to be without a father and yet as the years passed it felt more and more normal. There were incredible people who stepped up to fulfill the roles that Daddy most certainly would have embraced and we learned that our mother was more than capable of keeping us safe. She defied the restrictions on women in a time when new vistas were barely beginning to open up for the females of society. She was not a submissive creature who bowed to any kind of domination. She became an incredible role model for me and even for my brothers. 

At the same time, there were men in our circle who gave of their time to Mike and Pat. There was Mr. Cohen, the Boy Scout leader and Mr. Morgan the baseball coach who spent extra time making sure that my brothers had advocates for their talents. Uncle Harold took my brothers aside when we visited and showed them how to use the tools in his workshop. Mr. Cervenka created neighborhood projects in which they learned how to build forts and other kinds of structures. Grandpa Little talked with them about history and the evolution of science. Uncle Jack introduced them, and me as well, to westerns and practical jokes. They saw Uncle Willie, Uncle Paul, Uncle Andy and Uncle Louie with their four very different personalities and ways of living. The male influencers of their lives were many and varied. 

As I entered the eighth grade in 1961, the world was changing all around us. We had the first Catholic President of the United States, the Civil Rights movement was becoming more and more vocal, we were quietly becoming more involved in the civil struggles of Vietnam, and the Cold War felt a bit more hot as the Berlin Wall was built dividing Germany into east and west sectors. My brothers were advancing in school and in their interests as well. Our mother was enjoying her work as a teacher and gaining more and more respect from the community at large. Our father’s legacy still loomed large but I was no longer able to remember the sound of his voice. Only the books and music he had purchased reminded me of the man he had been.

We often spent time on Saturdays at the nearby movie theater the Santa Rosa where the “Fun Club” was a big event. For under a dollar we enjoyed hours of games and viewing along with our favorite snacks. It was a happy happening that we enjoyed along with a few hundred other youngsters from the area. We no longer wanted to accompany our mother on trips to the grocery store. The lure of movies was far stronger than walking up and down the aisles of commerce. The Fun Club became our Saturday destination.

There were also more and more sporting events that involved my brothers. Pat was such a talented baseball player that the coaches advanced him to a higher level than someone his age might ordinarily attain. It was tons of fun going to the field, watching the games and walking around searching for people that I knew. Our community was so close knit that they had become like family.

We were more and more independent, riding our bicycles across the bridge that spanned Simms Bayou to explore Garden Villas, another neighborhood where many of our school mates lived. There was a park there where we took classes and signed up to create crafts. A bookmobile serviced our need to read that had been so indelibly imbued into us by our father. The tree lined streets were magnificent places for leisurely riding our bikes. It was a heavenly environment right out of the television show The Wonder Years.

Our mother wanted us to learn how to swim so she diligently enrolled us in classes and took us to nearby pools to practice. Sadly not one of us ever mastered the skill. Somehow we felt as though our bodies had been improperly designed because we seemed to automatically sink no matter how hard we tried not to do so. We laugh about our incompetence in that arena to this very day. I sometimes wonder if it was also tied to our mother’s concern that we might drown. Each time we became a bit risky in our practice sessions she became quite anxious and pulled us back into the shallow end of the pool. Perhaps she sent us an unconscious message of her fears and it affected our ability to overcome the pull of gravity that seemed to take us under the water more often than not. 

In many ways eighth grade would signal the end of childhood for me even though mentally I had felt like an old soul for years. I still felt great responsibility for my brothers but they were pulling away from both me and our mother and becoming closer to one another. I was often more interested in my peers and longing to be part of the changes that my friends were undergoing. I still appeared to be about ten years old with my tiny frame and my baby face. I had earned the title of Captain of the Twirlers on the Drill Team which made my mother ecstatic. Little did she know that I had to fight my self consciousness as I stood our front of the other more mature looking girls. I began to adopt a “cutie” attitude by telling people that my name and my size matched making me easy to remember. Inside I wondered if I was ever going to actually grow as I watched my friends one by one developing into young women. Somehow I realized that the trauma of losing my father continued to return to me again and again when I least expected it. I learned how to hide my sorrow under a smile and a false air of confidence. I did not want to burden my mother and I hoped that my brothers did not feel the same way even as we never talked of our fate until we were much older. It would be many years later before we dared to speak of how our father’s death had actually affected us. I no longer believed in Santa Claus even though I pretended to do so for my brothers. The wonder of living was still there but it had been tempered by the angst of my coming teenage years.