Author: Sharron Burnett

When I was a child Saturdays were the best part of the week. My brothers and I would wake up without an alarm clock to watch the children’s programing on television while our mother slept later than usual. We’d lounge around in our pajamas enjoying our kid world until she awoke and it was time to do our weekly chores. Once we had completed all of our tasks and our home was in perfect order again, we would dress up to go out shopping at one of the malls or in downtown Houston. 

Shopping was a major event for us even though we rarely purchased anything of great expense. We were bound by a tight budget, so most of what we did was gaze into the shop windows or peruse the aisles to see what the latest fashions and products happened to be. We clutched the fifty cents that our mother gave us as a reward for our hard work in hopes of finding something great to purchase with our funds. When nothing appealed to us, we saved our income for another day. In our minds the hunt for something wonderful was more fun than the actual purchase. 

When I left home to start my own life, my mother often dropped by to see if I wanted to join her in the Saturday ritual. I almost always went along with her because I liked the idea of just the two of us spending time together. I rarely purchased anything but when I did, my mother would chide me if I did not find a sale or the best possible price. She was alway very careful with her spending and she encouraged me to be the same. 

In my mother’s final years I reserved Friday afternoons and evenings for her. I went to her house immediately after work and let her decide what we would do. Invariably our excursion included an early dinner before the crowds came followed by shopping somewhere. We often ended up at the Macy’s in the mall near her home or walking the aisles of the local Walmart. Now and again we just went to a grocery store so that she might get provisions for the following week. 

My mama so enjoyed shopping that she would literally walk up and down every single aisle examining items and studying the prices to find the best deals. She often purchased good buys to set aside for future gifting. In fact, she had a designated closet filled with unique items that would one day become presents for one of her children or grandchildren. 

Those Friday nights often extended to almost midnight if we were in a store that stayed open twenty-four hours. I found myself wondering where she got her energy because I had awakened early and spent a long day at work before venturing forth on our shopping trips. I learned that she took a nap on Friday afternoons in preparation for our outing. Thus her energy on those nights seemed superhuman.

Mama lived with me and my husband in her final year of life. In the beginning of that sojourn she still wanted to go out and about on Friday nights, but in the last six months her interest in shopping waned. Even when she forced herself to come along with me on my errands she became quite tired within a few minutes and asked to return home. 

I found myself missing our time together just browsing merchandise. Those were the moments when we had profound conversations and when my mother became so relaxed that her optimistic spirit came to life. She delighted in the walking and the talking and always congratulated herself on her purchasing acumen. I told her that she should write a book on how to live happily on a very small budget. That always made her smile.

After my mother died I lost interest in the kind of window shopping that she and I had always done. I tried doing it alone and there was no joy in wandering around without the conversation and laughter that I had shared with her. I almost felt lost and out of place just searching for the best of the sales like the two of us used to do. Neither of my daughters liked to shop, so I was left alone to attempt to recreate moments that were no more. 

Now I am most likely to make all but my purchases online. Shopping is no longer the joy for me that it once was. There is something empty about doing it alone inside a store when I can sit in the comfort of my home and find what I need with a few clicks on the keyboard of my computer. The packages come straight to my door and it’s easy to return anything that does not work out well. Little wonder that malls are dying everywhere because I sense that many others have turned away from the idea of shopping as entertainment just as I have. 

When my mother died, there were items in the room where she had stayed that were wrapped and labeled for members of the family. She had somehow stealthily purchased a retirement gift for me and had it ready to present at the party that never took place because it coincided with her death. She had found, among other things, a tea towel festooned with sunflowers and bumble bees that pronounced, “Life is a Garden. Live it!” Somehow she had captured the very idea that I needed to adopt in my new reality without my work and without her. It hangs proudly in my kitchen reminding me of our wonderful times not really shopping, but simply enjoying each other’s company. I miss those special times and probably always will. 

Shame is a tactic that has been used to control human behavior for thousands of years. The theory is that making someone feel guilty about their misdeeds is a powerful method for changing their behavior. We often confuse the concepts of shame and punishment and think of them as being one and the same. In our efforts to modify bad actions we too often attempt to shame individuals into submission to our rules rather than keeping actions and feelings separate. 

As a teacher I constantly encountered situations in which students had made bad choices, some of them resulting in harm to others. I had a duty to craft an appropriate consequence for the infractions, but drowning them in shame was never one of the tools that I used. In fact, I always let the offenders know that I condemned what they had done, but not them. I made certain that they understood that it was because I cared for them that I made them perform an appropriate penance. I also used that moment to talk with them about how they might have reacted differently when tempted to do something wrong. 

I have felt disappointed and even anger with the actions of the people around me, but never have I felt ashamed. To me there is a very distinct difference between being guilty of doing something wrong, and being a guilty person. I have been taught from the time that I was a child that we have rules and traditions and ways of treating each other for a reason, and that wavering from them will result in consequences, but doing wrong should not be a reason for destroying a person’s soul. 

I have made mistakes for which I have almost always paid a price. I have felt great sorrow and disappointment in myself. I have expressed my contrition for my misdeeds and then hoped that I might be forgiven. The hardest part has been forgiving myself, and sometimes in spite of my attempts to mend the rifts that I made, I have lost very special relationships. I did not need for anyone to shame me, because I had already done a very good job of harboring my guilt without compassion for myself. 

I have also been hurt greatly by other people. The wounds I received were emotional rather than physical. I have had to make a clean break with individuals and situations that were toxic, but I did not feel ashamed of the people and situations as much as a sense of disappointment and a realization that our human imperfections run deeply in each of us. Keeping our dark sides at bay must be a continuous resolution because even a tiny slip has the potential to bring irreparable pain and suffering. 

I come from a good family, and that includes the most extended reaches of the tree from which I was shaped. Every single one of us has had moments of regret when we did or said something that went against the lessons we were taught. Within the vast web of relations there have been mostly ordinary souls doing their best to be good people from one day to the next. Sometimes someone falters and becomes an addict, or hurts with words, or even abandons the family. While I may deplore what they are doing, I continue to love them and believe that if they were to return to the embrace of our family I would love them just as the father welcomed his prodigal son. 

Every family has its black sheep. The behavior of such souls may confound us and even make us wary of them, but shaming has never been a constructive method for rehabilitating them. I often think of a story that my mother-in-law told me one Sunday while the two of us sipped on steaming cups of tea. She related how one of her uncles was a raging alcoholic who seemed incapable of overcoming his addiction. Many a night he would wander to a corner bar and drink himself into oblivion. Often his sister, my mother-in-law’s mother, would have go searching for him when he did not return home. There were times when she found him lying in a ditch so drunk that he could not move. She would climb into the murky water and lovingly help him into the back seat of her car to take him home. 

This kind woman did not condone her brother’s behavior nor did she allow his condition to go untreated, but when she spoke of her brother she did so with compassion, respect and love. She did not feel ashamed of him so much as feel concern for him. The image of this beautiful and saintly woman helping her brother without feeling that somehow he had shamed the family has had a profound effect on how I react to fallen souls. 

Of course some things are so egregious that our only choice as a society is to lock such monsters away. There are cold blooded killers among us. Sometimes they rise to powerful positions wherein they can use their murderous tendencies to control entire populations These kind of people are of a different sort altogether. They are sociopaths or psychopaths. I would not have kind feelings toward them nor would I feel any pressure to forgive them for what they have done. That is the domain of God. Nonetheless I would see no point in shaming them, because I don’t believe that it would do any good whatsoever. Such people are empty souls entirely unable to feel a sense of connection to others. Just locking them away and throwing away the key seems to be the most humane thing we might do with them. 

Shame is a form of humiliation, an indignity that mercilessly strips a person down to the bone. It demoralizes rather than rehabilitates and in some cases it has no effect at all. Nonetheless we use it all the time in a kind of vindictive response to our own sense of hurt. There is way too much of that sort of thing happening in the world today. Perhaps we should focus instead on the idea of reconciliation when dealing with both our own mistakes and those of others. When we provide people, especially the young, with opportunities to pay for their infractions with sincere efforts to demonstrate intent to change, we offer them a means of rejoining our circle without being forever reminded of what was bad about them. Shaming creates broken souls. Avoid it at all costs.

I have a friend who has been struggling every single day since the murder of his son. The man is doing his very best to deal with the reality of what has happened to him and his family, but life has mostly been a rollercoaster ride since that fateful night in July. So many things remind him of his son and the times that might have been. So it is with each of us who have lost significant people in our lives. We eventually heal from our wounds, but small things can tear off the scabs and cause our hearts to bleed even when we think that we have overcome our sorrows. 

The triggers that do these things are different for each of us, unique to our personal experiences. It may be a sound or a smell or a memory that rouses our feelings and reignites the pain that lies mostly dormant until that moment. I’ve known people who cannot listen to certain songs or think of particular places without becoming emotional. For me the month of May lurks like a marauder in my memory, threatening to bring me down without warning. It was on the last day of that month in nineteen fifty seven that my father so suddenly died. 

While I am long past the gut wrenching grief that enveloped me back then there is a kind of regret that nibbles at me each time we enter the month of my father’s passing into eternity. I think of how he was a young man of thirty three forever frozen in time while I have grown old. I wonder how he might have marveled at the progress of the world. Would he be driving an electric car? What would he think of his grandchildren and great grandchildren? What kind of wonderful discussions might I have with him like he often had with his own father? 

Mostly the month itself is a time that I have to muscle through. Some years are better than others. The final moments before I retired were not so good because in that May my mother was dying and she would leave the world only days after I had officially left my job. The party that my daughters had planned for me had to be cancelled. There was no celebrating that year, only sorry once again. Last May it was my dear Aunt Valeria who died near the anniversary of my father’s death. She had been the one who broke the news of his demise to me when I was eight years old. She had been a stalwart in my life and losing her was harder than I had ever imagined it would be. 

May is doing no better this year at distracting me or keeping me feeling optimistic. News that one million Americans have died from Covid has shattered my joy at least for the moment. I wonder how many of these souls might have lived if we had genuinely joined together as a nation to make every possible sacrifice to keep our population well. It is mind boggling to think of how much pain and sorrow a tiny virus has wrought, but also to realize that many of these deaths happened after we had readily available vaccines. 

The war in Ukraine has kept me in a continuous state of anxiety. The Slavic people there look and sound so much like my grandmother who once lived just across the border from them in Slovakia. I weep at the images of destruction and the dead and dying that continue without pause. I try to imagine the terror and horror of having to leave the safety and calm of my home because invaders are attacking me and my neighbors for no good reason. It feels so wrong to only watch what is happening but what else am I to do aside from sending support for medical supplies and praying that God will stop the madness, end the death with a miracle?

Eighteen years ago my beloved mother-in-law, Mary, died just before Christmas. I have missed her so, but our family carried on just as people always do. My father-in-law met a sweet woman named Janell who helped him to set aside his sorrow. They married sixteen years ago and their time together has been fun and good for both of them. It took awhile for me to call this lady my mother-in-law but when I saw how much joy she brought to our Papa, I knew that she deserved the honor of that designation. I too have enjoyed her presence in our lives. We talk just like Mary and I used to do, but the conversations are different. We speak of decorating and cooking and where to find good shopping deals. She is fun and happy and I like being with her. I love her.

Now in the month of May that so often weighs heavily on my spirit my new mother-in-law is dying. Her heart is slowly failing her and the doctors can do no more. Her suffering is great and it is difficult to watch her discomfort. I am reminded once again of how fragile we all are and how important it is for each of us to treasure the time that we have. 

May is a reminder that all of our fighting and disagreements are a waste of the precious moments that we are allotted on this earth. Instead of battling with those who differ from ourselves we should be building legacies of understanding and acceptance and peace. We don’t have to own power but we should possess love. Our eyes should be on the future of our families and the world at large. We should be willing to sacrifice and compromise to provide as many people as possible with a fair chance of finding happiness and security. That means setting aside our fears and our prejudices and working together while we can because the Mays of our lives will ultimately catch up with us all. Each of us will one day be that soul drawing a final breath. In that moment my hope is that we can let go knowing that we have done everything possible to leave behind a world even better than the one that we entered on the day of our birth.  

My mother had many friends when I was a child. They often dropped by our house without warning. At those times the unwritten, but very understood rule, was that we children had to make ourselves scarce so that the adults would be able to visit without worrying that we might hear something meant only for their adult ears. We would step into the living room for a brief moment just to say hello and then disappear into our rooms or go outside to play while the ladies talked. 

Of course I was always curious about the muted whispers coming from my mother’s guests but I dared not intrude on the privacy of the conversations. Sometimes I would hear unbridled laughter. Other times the only sound was a kind a rhythmic cadence of voices speaking words that I was unable to decipher. One in awhile I heard mama’s visitors sobbing. Never did I actually attempt to find out the exact nature of the conversations. Those were private moments between the adults and I dared not breach the etiquette of the situation. 

My mother taught me the basics of talking in polite society. She warned me that there were particular topics that were taboo except in very private circumstances with trusted friends or family. According to Mama the big three subjects that I should avoid were politics, religion and sex. Because of that, I have to say that I grew up totally unaware of people’s thoughts on those particular topics. For most of my life I had no idea how people voted, what their religious views were or what their sexual preferences might be. The old school rules kept such discussions at bay. 

Following my mother’s lead I had conversations about the big three with only my closest and most trusted friends and family members. For the most part I was content with my Sunday afternoon tea time chats with my mother-in-law, my more raucous discussions with my brothers, and after dinner chats with my dear friends Pat, Bill, Egon and Marita. Even though I did not always agree with those folks I knew that my comments were safe and would not affect our relationships one way or another. Insofar as everyone else, I had no idea about their views and no inclination to find out what they were. 

I have to admit that there was great comfort in abiding by the protocols that my mother had imbued in me and realizing that somehow everyone else had also received instructions in how to have polite conversations. Nobody ever needed to know about my personal preferences nor did I push them to reveal theirs. All of that began to change about the time that George W. Bush was elected President and the world witnessed the horrors of 9/11. Suddenly it felt as though people began openly taking sides and judging the worth of friendships based on religion, politics and sexuality. I found myself more and more often being prodded to reveal my on thoughts on each of the matters, often by people that I only marginally knew. Worse yet, was the fact that if I demurred to the demands and honestly answered the questions I was often pilloried for not being in agreement with my inquisitors. 

Around the time of President Obama’s election the transparency trend seemed to become even more extreme. I remember being cornered by a coworker, with whom I had only a passing relationship, as he demanded to know how I had voted. When I attempted to remain mum he began a guessing game, using read my facial expressions to determined the truth of my beliefs. I felt as though I was in the hands of an inquisitor who would bludgeon me to the death if I did not comply with the answers that he hoped to get. While I stuck to my silence under duress, I felt incredibly discomfited by the encounter and sadly it would not be my last. 

By the time that Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump were running against each other in a national race it seemed as though every semblance of old time decorum was gone. Suddenly seemingly everyone was talking about politics, pushing religious ideas, and openly fielding opinions about sex. If these conversations had been reasoned and healthy I would not have minded so much, but the truth is that they were all too often tinged with divisive language that slowly began to pull people apart and parse them into differing camps. The ultimate shocker for me came at a child’s birthday party in which one group felt a sense of triumph over another and ended the fray by jumping in the air giving each other a high five. To say I was disturbed by the demonstration would be an understatement. 

Since that time the lack of traditional propriety has only accelerated. Far too many people have adopted an “in your face” attitude when it comes to talking about the big three that I was taught to keep at bay when in gatherings. I sense that as a society we are now engaged in behaviors that would have been disturbing to my mother. All of the ranting, flag waving, and almost blind allegiance to one point of view over another has become the fair game at any gathering. Nobody can even quietly voice opinions without have to engage in an intense debate that often ends with hurt feelings and broken relationships. Little wonder that perfect strangers feel free to make assumptions and hurl insults at people based on as little evidence of a person’s beliefs as wearing a mask inside a crowded store. 

My best buddies for speaking of delicate topics are now mostly gone. I find refuge with my children and grandchildren these days and even then I have to be somewhat circumspect. I have learned to follow my mother’s rules which means that my conversations are ever so polite. I talk about the weather, the trips, the good news but never ever dare speak of politics, religion or sex. Those subjects are best kept to myself lest they taint the good feelings that my friends and family members still have for each other. Sadly it may take time to forget the shadows that have already threatened our closeness because I said too many things out loud. If only I had stuck with the rules that my mother taught me, I would not have spoke or heard about things that surprised me and those that I love. Sometimes our elders really do know what’s best.  

I come from a long line of adventurous and independent thinking and souls. My great grandfather grew up in the south, but joined the Union Army during the Civil War. One of my grandfathers traveled from a small town in Slovakia to find work and a new life in the United States. Another grandfather grew up as a virtual orphan in a remote area of Virginia and began a trek across the country finding work when he was still a young teenager. My father was a traveler who had lived in or visited most of the states by the time he was thirty. His goal was to see and experience it all, so I have little doubt that once airfare was in the grasp of ordinary souls he would have journeyed to other countries as well. 

All of these men were also voracious readers. Their interests spanned many topics and among their daily routines was time spent leafing through newspapers and books. They were curious souls who wanted to learn about and see as much of the world around them as possible. They were risk takers who found great joy in discovering new horizons and unique ideas. 

I suppose that I caught the family bug that continually leads me in search of the almost infinite variety of the world and its people. I am drawn to travel and learning like a moth to a light. Sadly my risk taking was somehow squelched, so my forays into the world are generally limited to vicarious experiences rather than grand adventures. I suppose that the death of my father at the conclusion of a cross country move dampened the fires that might have sent me on grand journeys around the world. When my mother became ill when I was in my early twenties my rooted fate seemed to be sealed. My risk taking days were done save for opening my mind to ideas and cultures and beliefs that I was able to gather through reading and study. My travel came only in the form of short vacations. 

I lead a conservative lifestyle but my research has cultivated a progressive mind. I suppose that the fire of my curiosity was first lit by my father, but it became a conflagration under the influence of my high school English teacher. My unrelenting determination to become a citizen of the world was further stoked by my college professors and as I encountered more information about the incredible history of humans, I wanted even more. 

My quest has led me to friendships with people from many different countries and cultures. My acquaintances represent a United Nations of backgrounds and stories. I have come to hold the deepest regard for different ways of doing things. While I cherish my freedoms and my own country I realize that it is counterproductive to believe that ours in the only best way of doing things. I have expanded my horizons by opening my mind to possibilities just as those who influenced me taught me to do. 

I have taken down the borders of my mind and pushed myself to consider the many ways that the people on this earth choose to live out their days. It is fascinating to read unedited and honest histories and biographies. It is humbling to learn how much alike we are as humans, but also how many different points of view there are. In trying to understand why things I see patterns in our behaviors and the underlying desires that drive us. Nothing is actually happening in isolation. The theory of the butterfly in Africa influencing the weather in Antarctica is a powerful metaphor for our connections whether we realize those relationships or not. 

Each of us depends on the other in a long thread that stretches around the earth. The trees cut down in a South American rainforest will affect us all. The war in Ukraine is part of a long arc of history, and while we may not see its connection to us in the moment, over time its importance will become quite clear. Diseases and poverty anywhere on the planet affect us even when we are blind to their existence. Whether we like it or not, we are one gigantic family of humankind that has yet to fully understand the importance of working together. 

We tend to resign ourselves to particular ways of thinking and then languish there even when out beliefs somehow feel uncomfortable. Instead I would challenge everyone to consider looking honestly at the many different sides of an idea even when doing so feels uncomfortable. The process allows us to better see our place in the long arc of history and to appreciate the contributions of people very unlike ourselves.

I often think of the revolution that came about at the beginning of what would become the United States of America. According to what I have read, only about thirty percent of the colonists were so unhappy with the status quo that they saw rebellion as the only way forward. I find myself feeling a kind of connection with the rest of the people who must have been horrified by the chaos that ensued. I know that some of them even pulled up stakes and left for Canada for a time. They were caught in the midst of a political disagreement that they did not desire or even support. I suppose that such is the honest truth about any kind of war of ideas. It takes time and sometimes even grave hardship for people to adjust to new ways of seeing things. 

Brave souls in our past have considered means of moving societies forward. It’s a painful process often involving one step forward and two back. Galileo was persecuted for teaching that the earth is not the center of the universe. Rosa Parks was jailed for asserting her right to sit anywhere that she chose on a bus. Jesus was nailed to a cross for suggesting that the only commandment that mattered was love and that some rules were not just. Today across the globe heroes are teaching us where we humans have got it wrong and how we might repair our relations with one another. It’s up to us to at least listen to what they have to say. Whether we like it or not we are all citizens of the same world.