Author: Sharron Burnett

As children we are taught to be truthful. As we grow older we realize that some of our adult icons have lied to us. Our first realization of dishonesty is always difficult to accept, especially if we have really tried to be entirely open in our own lives. 

We’ve all heard the story of George Washington confessing to chopping down a cherry tree as a child. Whether or not that is little more than a myth is uncertain and we don’t really know that Washington was always truthful, but it does appear that people trusted him. That alone makes us think that he must have been mostly free of lies and deceit. So too did Abraham Lincoln somehow earn the moniker of “Honest Abe,” leading us to also believe that he was a man who had earned the confidence of the people who knew him. 

I’m not so sure that anyone has lived through decades without telling a fib here and there. As children we all have those moments of attempting to cover up our incidents of bad behavior with bold excuses that border on lies. Who hasn’t found themselves complimenting a cook over a dish that wasn’t actually tasty at all just to spare feelings? The little white lies creep into our habits because it sometimes seems better to spare someone’s feelings than to voice what we are really thinking. Those lies seem not to hurt anyone so we justify them with slight prevarications.

Of course there are truly hurtful lies that eat at the fabric of families and societies. The person who steals from a company multiplies the untruths over and over and over to keep from being caught. The adulterer breaks the sacred vows of marriage. Lies destroy trust and create cynicism and fear. 

I have been fortunate to be surrounded during my life by mostly honest people. There was, however, a priest at my high school who hid the fact that he was sexually abusing one of the girls, so it might be said that his whole life was a lie. Someone stole all of my valuable jewelry one time, my checking account got hacked, and a student took my wallet, but those are the most egregious things that have happened to me. As a young adult I watched President Nixon’s reputation unravel as evidence pointed to the coverup that he engineered after the break-in at the Watergate. 

Perhaps my parents kept worries from me, but that was simply an omission motivated by love. If either of them was hiding some egregious act I have never uncovered it. I believe that they were both well-intentioned people who did their best to be honest and forthright. They modeled the behavior that I would adopt as a child and carry into my adulthood. What you see with me is very much who I am. I am a person with nothing to hide. 

My mother and my teachers and my church impressed me with their lessons about honesty, so it’s difficult for me to understand someone who lies continually. I know such persons exist. I have met them among my students. I have wondered if they had not been taught to be truthful like I was or if they were simply imitating the conduct that they from the members of their family. Either way it made me sad to see that those so young were already on a dangerous road. 

Nowadays we are cautious about who we believe because there are so many lies circulating around us. We are realists, but we get caught again and again in shocking revelations about people we once admired. Oddly our cynicism about the shortage of truth in our society makes us more likely to believe that everything is fake. We become confused and manipulated. Lies gum up the works and turn us against each other just like my mom often warned. 

Truth, like love, always wins. Somehow the lies, exaggerations and stealthy behaviors are usually outed. It’s best to choose truth, even if it is painful. We may not want to know the imperfections of the people that we love or the ugly aspects of the history of our world, but we are better off getting such things into the light than hiding them in the shadows. Honesty is a first step to rebuilding trust and I can’t think of anything we need more right now. Sadly we live in an era filled with so many hoaxes that it is often difficult to know what is true and what is false. We should not have to be detectives and researchers to know the difference. If truthfulness became more of a norm we would have more confidence in what we hear.

Truth is beauty and beauty is truth. It begins or not, in the arms of parents. It continues with our teachers and our neighbors. If that trust is broken and then accepted as the way things are our society breaks down. It’s time we all worked hard to show our young ones the importance of being honest and the pitfalls of lying. Praise the truth tellers and reveal the liars for what they are. Most of all be the models of truth that our children need.  

A work colleague lost his son last summer. The young man with an inviting smile and twinkling eyes was murdered in a road rage incident after a family outing to a baseball game. The tragedy has profoundly affected the boy’s father who very openly admits to a level of grief that is beyond trite condolences and assurances that one day he may realize the purpose of such a thing happening. Many of his friends and acquaintances and even some strangers have read his posts and struggled to know what to say or how to feel in such a circumstance. The bereaved father is not looking for help. He has a professional therapist for that. Instead he is simply expressing the agony of a shattered life. 

Recently he admitted that he was not ready to forgive the man who shot his son. The murderer has yet to utter a word of remorse. Instead the bereaved father asked us to describe forgiveness. He wanted to know if any of us would be inclined to forgive someone who had committed such a heinous crime. 

I think that the concept of forgiveness is far too complex and personal to describe in a generalized way. As with much of our experience we tend to over simplify issues. We want quick answers. My friend has found that in reality such a quick fix is impossible to find. So too do I think that we literally have to be the person who has been hurt to fully understand the level of loss, betrayal, violence that often surrounds the question of forgiveness. There is also the issue of whether or not the perpetrators of such acts have a semblance of regret. 

I think that the most powerful moments in the life of Jesus of Nazareth came when he was betrayed by a friend, tried for a crime he did not commit, sentenced to die, and then nailed to a cross to die an agonizing death. There were two other men hanging on crosses of their own on either side of him. One of them admitted his sins and expressed his regret for having committed them. Jesus forgave him, but Jesus did not turn to the other fellow and offer the same absolution. What this teaches us is that pardon is earned by truthful sorrow and penance. I don’t think the message could be any clearer. 

There is also the issue of mental culpability. We know that some people act out of severe mental illness. In the same way humans sometimes do not act to protect or save someone out of ignorance or simply because they are not paying attention. On that same day that he was dying Jesus uttered a collective kind of mercy for his executioners saying, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” 

I Googled the word forgiveness and this is what I found, “Psychologists generally define forgiveness as a conscious, deliberate decision to release feelings of resentment toward a person who has harmed you…Forgiveness doesn’t not mean forgetting, nor does it mean condoning or excusing offenses.”

For me forgiveness would depend on the degree of hurtfulness that someone inflicted on me. A hurtful comment would be easy to pardon. A lifetime of degradation from someone would not only be too vile to condone but would also demand a total break from the toxic relationship. I don’t think that anyone should be expected to forgive the malicious taking of a life, particularly if the perpetrator is unwilling to express sincere contrition. 

I do believe in the possibility of redemption but it is not always easy to know if the repentance is sincere or simply a ruse. Whatever the situation, I don’t think that it has to be up to the victim of extreme abuse or violence to make the first move and be the better person who offers an olive branch. I think it is really okay to hold contempt for the person who gassed hundreds of Jews, the man who hung an innocent man from a tree, the person who humiliated and beat his wife. If God gazes into an individual heart and finds enough remorse to forgive them, then so be it, but the victims of such heinous experiences should not be held accountable for forgiveness. It is only natural to feel no mercy for someone who has destroyed a life. 

My grandson was an actor when he was in high school. He once performed the role of Dennis Shepard, father of Matthew Shepard who was brutally murdered for being gay. At the sentencing of one of the killers Mr. Shepard asked the judge to spare the life of the convicted murderer in a stunning speech that sums up the agony of losing a child to violence. He did not however express a willingness to forgive.

“Every time that you wake up in that prison cell, remember that you had the opportunity and the ability to sort your actions that night. Every time that you see your cellmate, remember that you had a choice, and now you are living that choice. You robbed me of something very precious, and I will never forgive you for that, Mr. McKinney. I give you life in the memory of one who no longer lives.”

Somehow I think this says it all about forgiveness. This is what I would tell my friend.

When my grandson became a member of his high school band I often attended his school’s football games, mostly to watch the musical performances at halftime. When I was a high school student I was addicted to the football competitions and found ways to attend most of them even though I didn’t have a car or a driver’s license. Those Friday nights were always fun whether or not our team was a contender for a championship season. 

I attended a private Catholic school, Mt. Carmel, so we rarely played any publics schools, but there were enough parochial schools to provide us with a full schedule. In the Houston area alone our rivals were Jesuit, Marion, St. Pius and the biggest of them all, St. Thomas. The games were grudge matches in which we attempt to demonstrate our bonafides and they sometimes challenged my allegiances because so many of my beloved cousins were student in the opposition schools. In truth, on Friday nights nothing mattered more to me than winning so I had no trouble justifying my disloyalty to my cousins. I only wanted to witness the glory of my school and my classmates who fought for its reputation. 

Mt. Carmel had a fabulous drill team that included a drum and bugle corps along with twirlers and a marching group that performed difficult precision routines. They wore sharp military style uniforms in our school colors of brown and white. They were an extraordinary group that often stole the show from the athletes, adding to the attraction of the games. 

There was usually a parent who would agree to transport some of us to the games when we were still freshmen, and once my classmates began obtaining their driver’s licenses they took turns borrowing the family car to take us to enjoy the Friday night lights. Somehow I managed to hitch my way to the happenings and they were always so much fun. They were an integral part of my youth as much as learning and attending church were.

I had wanted to join the drill team and had spent years practicing my tricks with a baton, but I lost my nerve when it came to the tryouts. I was skinny, flat chested with baby fine hair that would not hold the bouffant hair styles that were so popular back then. I felt gawky and embarrassed by my childlike body so I backed out of showing my twirling skills which were actually quite substantial. Instead I made up a number of excuses for why I suddenly was not interested in being one of the Cadets. 

In retrospect I know how silly I was, but at the time things worked out well nonetheless. I went to virtually every football game and I had the freedom to walk around and just have a fun and memorable time with my friends. When I became a senior the drum major of the Cadets asked me to be their official voice during performances. I got to go the press box and describe the music and movements of their routines which in some ways was more my cup of tea than prancing about on the field. 

My male classmates on the football team were awesome, but St. Thomas always seemed to stand in their way of experiencing a perfect winning year. That team was a force of nature and my cousins who went to school there would often tease me about going to a school that could not defeat them. One of those cousins would eventually become a star player for St. Thomas continuing the dominance of that school on the gridiron long after I had graduated and moved on to college. I sometimes found myself cheering for him with the rest of the family and always felt a tiny bit of guilt which I resolved by never rooting against my alma mater.

Despite my family connections I was ever loyal to my own team. I believed in the Beach Boy creed to be true to my school. I’d intensely watch every play and rejoiced with each inch of ground that moved the guys closer to the end zone. Id say Hail Marys for the quarterback and the kicker. I’d lose my voice yelling with both glee and disappointment. Those were glorious times. 

Later, as a mom, I would spend many years watching the football games of my daughters’ high school. I sat each week with a group of parents who became dear friends. Our children were athletes, members of the drill team and cheerleaders. The stands were packed with fans, mostly in the student sections. I found as much joy in my new role as I had as a student. 

What confounded me when I went to watch my grandson and his band is how few students came to the games. The stands were filled with members of the band, the girls on the dance team and parents. The number of students watching the game without affiliated to a particular group was minimal compared to my own experiences. I was surprised with the obvious lack of interest and I wondered how that had come to be. I noted that it was not just my grandson’s school that appeared to lack student spirit, but also the opposing sides. I wondered why those gridiron competition had grown out of fashion with student spectators. 

I would not trade my memories of those Friday night duels for anything. I viewed my male classmates who played in the game as heroes. I thought that the girls who marched at halftime were glorious. I felt so much joy and delight on those evenings that it created energy for me to study and learn during the school week. Those really were the days. 

In a postscript I ended up marrying a student from St. Thomas. He still boasts about the state championships that his team won. I let him brag because I know I would do so if the tables were turned. I also found out that my former rivals from that school were actually rather nice fellows, not the brutes that I once thought them to be. It seems that we all had great fun on those Friday nights and it was wonderful.  

I’ve always been drawn to intensely cold days. Perhaps it is because there are so few of them where I live. A frigid day is a kind of novelty that allows me to use my fireplace and cuddle under a blanket while I write my blogs or read my books. My cup of Earl Grey tea seems to taste better when there is a chill in the air. I find myself appreciating the shelter that my home provides more than I usually do. Wintery days provide a kind of diversion from the warm humid season that seems to last for most of the year in my part of the world. Probability being what it is tells me to treasure and enjoy moments when the temperature drops into the low thirties. 

I suppose that if it snowed for weeks on end, leaving me continually isolated, I might begin to feel a bit like Jack Torrance in The Shining, but that never really happens. The colder days of January and February instead make me friskier and more alert. I revel in the way I feel. Those months tend to be boring and seem never ending unless they are improved by a nice winter freeze. It’s even better if a bit of snow accompanies the moment.

I suppose that my love of the cold may have come from a time just after my father died. It was November and the days were growing shorter with a hint of winter putting a chill on our house. My mother was unsure of how to light the pilot for the furnace so she bundled us up at night under quilts that my Grandma Minnie had made. She told us stories about how she and her siblings had stayed warm during the winter in her childhood home. There was no central heat there, only a single gas heater that warmed the central part of the home, but not the bedroom she shared with her sisters. They would huddle under a pile of blankets and hug each other to get even more warmth from their body heat. She’d smile as she remembered how close they were and how they took care of each other. 

We finally got the heater working when our next door neighbor came over one evening to help. He laid down on the floor and showed my mom how to safely light the flame that would start the system and deliver heat to the entire house. That was the very moment when I began to believe that our strange little fatherless family was going to be alright. In a kind of Pavlovian way I have always felt comforted by the arrival of winter and the first stirrings of warmth from the heating system. I associate it with kindness and good fortune. I makes me appreciate the most simple aspects of my life. Winterlike weather is kind of a dog whistle that brings happiness to me. 

On the other hand I know that I have a kind of psychological aversion to the beginning of summer because it traditionally arrives on Labor Day when my father died. It’s rather bizarre how we humans make connections with certain dates on the calendar or places or even music. Our brains automatically affect our feelings even when we don’t realize what is happening. It took me a long time to understand why I prefer the cold over the sunny days of summer. Once I realized the why of my preferences I learned to once again enjoy both ends of the seasonal spectrums. I no longer fear the summer the way I once did, but it is still my least favorite season because I really don’t like being hot and sweaty.

My daughters both lived in cold climates for a time. They have told me how fun it initially was to have snow and get all bundled up before going outside. Over time they grew weary of the short days that became dark by four in the afternoon. They said that the snow became an ugly gooey mess as the months wore on. When April came and it was still chilly outside they longed for the spring weather that came in the middle of March in the south. They were more than happy to put their heavy coats and snow shovels away when they came back to Texas. 

I suspect that folks from northern climes long for sunny beaches and blue skies while I wish for a lovely white carpet of snow on the ground. While I worry about hurricanes from June to November they spend the winter months wondering when a blizzard may come to ruin their plans. We travel to cabins in the mountain in January and they go on cruises to the Caribbean. 

Not everyone who lives around me likes the cold. I’m often in the minority when going into rapture over the few days each year that we get a small taste of what it would be like to have bonafide winters. They prefer the temperance of seventy degree weeks when the flowers still bloom and even the most delicate plants thrive without any extra attention. Not even the fun of wearing their boots or drinking hot cocoa will convince them to give a thumbs up for winter. I suppose it’s like many of the proverbial questions that divide us into different ways of thinking. 

It was already warming up a bit as January came to a close, but tradition tells me that February will give me one more shot at the kind of chilly days that I so love. Wintery days in Houston are like Christmas to me. They come and go quickly, but deliver so much comfort and joy while they are here.  

Believe it or not, I really do not like being political. For the majority of my life I have generally avoided political discussions. Most of the time I had little idea how the people that I knew voted nor did I pay much attention to what was happening in the halls of power. I remember overhearing an argument between my father and grandfather over the integration of schools in Arkansas that became rather testy. To this day I do not know what they actually said or how they may have felt about that moment in history. 

It has only been in more recent times that I began to feel concern over the direction and divisiveness of our political thinking. I found myself reading more and more about the founding of our nation and the worries of its originators like Alexander Hamilton and James Madison. I learned of the policy disagreements between John Adams and Thomas Jefferson. I took the time to attempt to understand why the issue of slavery had not been tackled earlier in our nation’s history. I became more and more enlightened through my studies. 

I understand that politics have been a volatile undertaking since the beginning of time. The fact that we disagree on how things should be done is nothing new under the sun. Even a cursory parsing of world history demonstrates that humans have been arguing or even fighting over how to best live together from the beginnings of time. Nonetheless, there are moments when it is imperative to actually choose a side. 

The ancestors that I know of who were here in the colonies fought in the American Revolution. I’m not sure if they had strong feelings about warring against the king or if they simply followed along with some of their neighbors. My great grandfather chose to stand with the union during the Civil War. Given that he was from Kentucky it must indeed have been a well thought out decision. My father and uncles volunteered to fight in World War II. My dad was quite young and entered the fray late, so he did not see any action, but he believed strongly in our nation. 

I am a bonafide Baby Boomer. As a young college student I professed my allegiance to the Civil Rights movement but did little other than taking part in a few peaceful demonstrations. I was against the war in Vietnam because I did not believe that it was in the best interest of our country. I was never against those who had been drafted or who had choses to fight. In fact, my main motivation was to end the war and bring them safely home. 

After that I generally snoozed through the ups and downs of politics. I voted regularly and without any kind of distinct pattern in my choices. I suppose I would be called an independent whose main interests were in social issues. Perhaps this is a result of my own childhood in an economically challenged family and the stories that my mother told me of her experiences as a child of immigrants. Financial issues meant little to me because I had devoted my life to a career in education which essentially meant that I would never get rich.

In these times my political concerns continue to revolve around the well-being of others. I am comfortable and content with my own situation, but I have dedicated my life to helping those less fortunate to climb their way out of difficult situations. I have been a strong advocate for fairness and opportunity for all. That is the essence of what matters to me. 

As an educator I encountered bullies and unkindness. I witnessed abuse and the struggles of children afflicted with learning disabilities or just plain bad luck in circumstance. My goal was to do anything in my power to help the wounded souls who entered my classroom as much as those who talents and characteristics were extraordinary. I advocated for excellence for all of them. I pushed back on those intent on abusing them. 

I write this because I have long been silent on an issue that bothers me. We have a President of our country who by his own admission struggled to speak and to read because of a terrible stutter that he had. Luckily his parents encouraged him to ignore the taunts and work hard to overcome his disability. With great effort he did in fact learn to speak deliberately and slowly enough to avoid the pitfalls of his speech. He rose to be a champion for the underdog just as I always was and became the President of the United States.

Instead of lauding him for being able to overcome what must have been such a public difficulty, we allude to some ridiculous idea that his verbal missteps must be a sign of mental deterioration. We do not stop to think that in order not to stutter, President Biden must slow down his responses. His brain must control his stuttering and answer difficult questions at one and the same time. That has to be incredibly challenging and now again there is sure to be a misstep here and there. 

I have a slight case of dyslexia. Sometimes when I have been teaching for long hours I begin to reverse numbers, copy problems down incorrectly. My students have to correct me. I am not losing my ability to perform mathematical calculations. I have not forgotten the algorithms or theorems. My mind simply twists around what I see with my eyes once in awhile. It a disability which provided me with sympathy and patience for others who for whatever reason must take a bit longer to learn and respond. 

Who among us would hold up to the intensity of the presidency without making a slip or the tongue or momentarily forgetting a word or a name or an idea. I know that I sometimes see a former colleague and have to collect my thoughts before remember his/her name. I often fumble for the word I want to use. I say things that sound ridiculous when I am too hasty in speaking. I have often been accused of being slow, even by teachers who eventually praised my intellectual acumen when I showed them that I simply learned differently. 

We have applauded ugliness and insults for too long. It is time that we return to respectfulness and a sense of unity for the sake of each other and our nation. Our founders purposely called this country the United States of America. If they had wanted us to continually be divided we would have only been The States of America. It’s time we remembered that there are many countries that are part of north and south America. There is only one nation that is who we are and should be, The United States of America. Our founders wanted to form a more perfect union. They understood that there is no perfect union. Let’s stop the ridiculous bickering. It does no good for any of us. Let’s make the United States great again by being a nation that is respectful, empathetic, accepting and courageous. Let’s strive for that more perfect union.