Author: Sharron Burnett

(Please note that this blog was written and scheduled before the horrific murder of Charlies Kirk and the shooting at a high school in Colorado. Nonetheless the most recent cases of death by gunmen point to the epidemic that continues to plague our nation and about which we do little but quibble.)

If two young white high school students suddenly burst into a school and begin shooting classmates and teachers we do not blame all young white high school students. If a white man begins shooting people at a concert in Las Vegas we do not blame all white men. If a registered Republican attempts to kill the President we do not blame all Republicans. If a white college student dresses like the Joker and fires into the audience at a movie theater we do not blame all white college students. If a trans woman shoots children attending mass at a Catholic School many suddenly rail that all trans people are evil deviants who must be expunged from society. 

In the past blaming one group or type of person for perceived harm has led to burning innocent people for supposedly being witches. It is has led to killing Jews, gypsies, the mentally ill by the millions. When we cannot understand something we humans have historically used prejudices to condemn certain groups. By this time in history we should know better. We should be better. We should be more accepting of our differences and more determined to have serious discussions about how to solve our problems rather than ranting about the sins of a single person as though those traits are intrinsic in all from the same group.  

Why do we pick and choose which groups to damn and which to gloss over when it comes to mass shootings? Statistically such individuals have been mostly white males. Now and again persons of other races have taken up arms against innocents. In truth most of the individuals who have resorted to violence to voice their disdain for whatever reason have demonstrated a history of anger, depression and even full blown mental illness. The backgrounds of such individuals can vary but in most cases somebody saw something in them that was disturbing and either said nothing or was ignored when they attempted to warn authorities of the danger. 

As a society we want to forestall the outbursts of hate and destruction that lead to tragedies but we are unwilling to look at the total picture of what is happening when such individuals choose grotesque violence to make themselves seen and heard. Such behavior does not make sense to the rest of us so we pray and grieve for the victims and their families but never really get to the heart of what keeps such incidents happening. We like to find simple fixes by blaming the problem with generalities rather than the very specific situations that slowly but surely led to a very disturbing murder of innocent people. 

If we are honest we must admit that there are far too many guns in our midst, and not just guns that might shoot one person at a time but those capable of bursts of bullets that are rapid fire and so lethal that they literally tear whatever they hit apart. At this moment in time there are more guns in the homes of American than there are people in the population. If we were to distribute one of those guns to every man, woman and child there would still be guns left over. 

The question that always comes to my mind is why have we allowed the proliferation of guns to proceed with few if any restrictions. Why should a sixteen year old neighbor of mine get an AR 15 for his birthday? He is a nice kid who is not likely to use the gun to kill someone but why would we think it okay to give him one? What is the purpose? 

We have created a society in which guns are far too readily available. We content ourselves with the situation my asserting our right to bear arms. Many among us seem to think that a time will come when we need to defend ourselves with a gun, but in reality how often does that actually happen. How many times has a person with a gun been successful in preventing a mass shooting? The fact is that we miss the cues that something is amiss over and over again. Shooters leave clues all over the place and then we allow them to purchase weapons with few restrictions. Sometimes we even encourage them to use guns as an outlet for their frustrations as with the young man who attempted to assassinate Donald Trump and the infamous Adam Lanza whose mother thought that learning how to use guns would get him out of the shell in which his mind lived.

I know very good people who legally carry guns in their cars and sometimes even on their persons. They seem to believe that if a dangerous situation arises they will be ready to defend themselves and their families but this is not the wild west anymore. We live in a mostly civilized society but we have a fetish for guns that all too often allows weapons to end up in the hands of people whose minds are damaged. Surprisingly they often make their mental hell public as though they are hoping that someone will be alert and brave enough to stop them before they do harm. The signs are almost always present. Someone usually knows that there is danger but is reluctant to take action lest they be wrong. We hear the same story over and over again. We glorify violence in our media and create heroes out of villains that disturbed young people decide to emulate. 

We often wonder why a man would kill his wife and maybe even his children and then kill himself. it would make more sense if he ended his pain by only taking his own life. We ask why he felt the need to kill others first. We would do well to attempt to understand this phenomenon because it is generally the goal of mass shooters to take out as many people as possible and then die themselves. What causes that? It is not being of a certain race or nationality or political bent or sexual preference. it is an individual sickness having nothing to do a certain type of person. 

We do no good when we rant and rave with extreme prejudice. We would do so much better if we were willing to admit that our fascination with guns and violence has not helped. The easy purchase and ownership of guns very much lies at the heart of the matter. We can pray and pray but eventually we have to use the intelligence that we have to craft a plan that may actually work better than the one that we have now. We might start by working together and demonstrating enough acceptance and love for each other to honestly admit that we have yet to be serious about this problem. We might also understand that our prejudices and hatreds are only adding more fuel to the fire that has made our nation the mass shooting capital of the world.

In the Irish language, we are not our emotions. We are not sad or anxious. We have sadness or anxiety on us.

To say I am sad, we say tá brón orm – there is sadness on me.

I am anxious, tá imní orm – there is anxiety on me.

The language recognizes these as passing states, not permanent fixtures of who we are.

I saw this on Facebook and it immediately caught my attention. I have always wondered why we speak of mental conditions as though they are permanent. I have never heard someone with Melanoma say, “I am cancer.” We never expect a person who has had a hard attack to claim, “I am heart disease.” Some how when it comes to our mental state we often make the mistake of acting as though people are their emotions. 

My mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Her doctor never said that she was bipolar but many lay people would refer to her that way as though the sum of who she was as a person was defined in a label. The truth is that her bipolar disorder was chronic and had to be treated with daily medications much like I take a pill for my GERD, but she did not always display the symptoms of her illness. More time than not she had her illness under control.

If I miss a few days of my Prilosec I end up with heartburn so intense that I become unable to function. So too it was with my mother. She relied on her meds to keep her disorder at bay. If she tried to wean herself from the medication the symptoms of depression and mania would return, so my brothers and I monitored her regularly to be certain that she was following the directions of her doctor. When all went as prescribed she was delightfully as “normal” as anyone. Sadly, she and I both despised the word normal because it too implied that she was somehow broken, different, not quite right. 

We do people a huge disservice whenever we equate anyone with any kind of mental illness as being that illness. Society has a way of making those who are afflicted feel like pariah. They want to hide the disorder. They want to be seen for who they are. They don’t want to be the condition that is making them unwell. 

We have to be careful how we say things about people. We sometimes complain that we should not have to measure our words. We argue that being “woke” is a bad thing that limits the truths that we might speak. Instead I would propose that using our language in a way that does not demean others is the way we should always be. 

We use the term “he/she is” in some very negative ways. A person should not be defined by either his/her appearance or the workings of the brain. We simply do not yet understand enough about why some people suffer from mental illness or have addictions to food, drugs, alcohol, sex. Doctors and researchers have barely uncovered the mysteries of how our brains work and why the neurological activity of our brains trigger all kinds of behaviors. 

I truly hope that the day will come when we are as confident in our knowledge of the brain as we are about the heart, kidneys, or eyes. I dream of a time when doctors will know exactly how to treat and defeat mental illnesses just like they do with cancer. In the meantime surely we have evolved enough as humans to quit acting as though we are still in the middle ages when people believed in witches. We think we have accurate descriptions of what is normal and what is not but when it comes to mental states our ideas do not take into account the incredible diversity of the human brain. 

I don’t know exactly why I possess an introverted personality but I do. It is not who I am. There is so much more to me than the fact that I feel better in a quiet environment than in a raucous one. It should be long past time that we eschew phrases like She is crazy. He is anxious. They are sad. Instead let’s get better with language like the Irish and learn to say “She has been afflicted by a mental illness. He is feeling anxious. They are dealing with sadness.”

Think about how much it hurts for the people afflicted with emotional distress or any form of neurological illness to feel as though they have become their psychological conditions. They are so much more wonderful that that. They deserve our loving respect. Their states of mind are passing and only a small part of who they are. When we refer to them let’s use language that is respectful.

The human story is a contradiction within a contradiction We have traits that lead us forward into greatness and others that reveal our feet of clay. The story of humankind is glorious and horrendous at one and the same time. Even our most honored heroes are imperfrct and our villains have momentary flashes of conscience. 

Life for each person is a challenge to do the right thing most of the time. We all know someone who appears to mostly choose goodness on a daily basis. We also know those who try the be the best version of themselves but falter over and over again. Then there are the souls who frighten us with their wanton attraction to evil. The eternal question of life is what makes one person seemingly good and another a horror? If only we had the ability to unlock the secret to that conundrum we might be able to mend souls the way we mend hearts. 

There are so many ways of thinking about the morality of humankind. Are we born sinners who have to be somehow saved or do we become sinners over time in concert with our experiences. Is there such a thing as a brain that is damaged from birth or does society do the damage to a child who will ultimately become a criminal or a tyrant?

As an educator and a mother I have often grappled with such thoughts. I have wondered how much of my influence and those of others contribute to the formation of an individual. Is there a moment when we can guide young people into lives of integrity or is brokenness of spirit something so innate that it will take more than our meager attempts to reprogram a lost soul?

My experience has shown me that we become the persons that we are for millions and millions of reasons. We start with a genetic structure that determines much of the health of the many systems or our bodies. Our ancestors unknowingly contribute to how strong our hearts and bones will ultimately be. Our brains carry codes that influence how we interact with the word. Still we are not prisoners to a preconceived way of being. The influences of the entire collection of interactions with other humans has the power to change us for the better, turn us into monsters or break us. 

All along our journeys through life we change, adjust, become just a bit different than we once were. Some of us have the confidence to adapt because of the love and security that surrounded us as children. Others struggle from neglect, want or cruelties inflicted on them. 

How do we best deal with the broken souls among us without feeling helpless, inept, frightened? How can we find them and help them before their worst traits become firmly entrenched inside them? Is there a point at which we are able to help them or is there such a thing as someone who is hopeless?

I like to think that I did my motherly job in showing my daughters how to be the best versions of themselves. Nonetheless, I realize that mine was not the only influence on them. As they became adults and left my care they continued to develop in very independent ways, choosing ideas, relationships and ways of living that were different from my own. All I could give them that would last forever would be my love. I always knew that our thinking and our decisions would one day diverge. My hope was that they would always measure their own choices with a sense of morality. My relationships with my adult daughters is a now a healthy kinship between adults, no one of which is dominant. We are mostly of a mind but sometimes we agree to disagree.

I would like to think that I had a positive impact on each of my students as well. I tried to convey my love and concern for them but some were already so beaten down that I knew that my influence was nil. They were lost souls and I worried about them and what tragedies they might ultimately endure. I know that some of them ended up in prison. I was not as surprised as I was sorrowful. Somehow I had seen their downfalls coming but had no idea how to prevent them from being inevitable. There were too many more powerful and dangerous influences pushing them toward a tragic life for me to rescue them.

It would be wonderful to crack the code. To learn how to provide every baby that is ever born with the positive traits that make life more bearable and beautiful. Sadly we have yet to find the perfect formula for insuring that kind of security for everyone. Punishment may scare someone straight or it may destroy the spirit. The morality of religion may guide someone to be loving and kind or it may turn the individual into a self righteous hypocrite. Just the right combination of love, consequences, and moral instruction may help most of us to be good and productive people but too much indulgence or discipline or preaching can create a spoiled, angry and vindictive soul. Somehow we have to find a balance and therein lies the rub. 

I suppose that I should not care about such things but I am just vain enough to eschew shorts and skimpy bathing suits as I age and my body clearly shows the passage of time. I really celebrate the coming of fall because it brings long pants and baggy sweaters out of storage and into my daily fashions. I not only look better and younger with a bit of coverage but the colors enhance my complexion as well. Perhaps this is because I was born in November. I seem to have been destined to festoon myself in reds, browns, oranges and golden shades of yellow. A fall palate makes me look alive. 

Fall also infuses me with a burst of energy. I can ramble about outdoors without wilting in ninety degree sun. I get my vitamin D naturally as I suddenly feel good about taking long walks that wore me out only weeks ago. I’m an autumn girl if ever there was. 

I like the apples and oranges and pumpkins and squash that come with the season. I have to visit The Cheesecake factory at this time of year to enjoy my annual slice of pumpkin cheesecake. There was a time when I ordered a whole cake for my birthday and ended up eating slice after slice all by myself without gaining a pound. Now just looking at it adds a pound or two to my chubby physique but the clothes of autumn cover the flaws quite well. 

Of course I always decorate my home for fall. This year I cut down on how much I set out just a bit. I have a tendency to overdo and this year I only used my favorite items which have meaningful memories. It looks so very nice with my pared down Marie Kondo style. I can tell a story about a person or a place or an event attached to every pumpkin or pinecone and I remember the joy of those moments when I gaze at them in the months and weeks before the Christmas season.

The birthdays of my grandchildren, people I love, and myself are crammed into September, October and November. Even though fall does not officially begin until the twenty second I consider everyone born in September to be child of the fall. My father begins the marathon on September 2, then comes my husband on September 20, followed by my first grandson on September 26. There must be something quite special about September babies because even my friends who were born in September are wise, generous and loving like these three men who have brought me such joy during my life.

October is twin month. My granddaughter and grandson, Abby and Ian, celebrate on October 1. Identical grandsons, Ben and Eli, come along on October 18. In between all of the frivolities is October 4 which is my anniversary commemorating the best life choice that I ever made. This year I will spending much of October in London, Scotland and Paris with my husband Mike to celebrate life in general. I can’t think of a more perfect month to embark on such a wonderful journey. Luckily we will get back in time for Halloween and the annual party that happens every year on our street.

November is the month of my birth. I was born in the long ago on November 18. I never dreamed of being as old as I will be. I somehow never imagined being a senior citizen with wrinkles and arthritis but here I am and I plan to squeeze as much out of the coming years as I am fortunate enough to do. I will find myself especially thankful this year that I have enjoyed a life filled with so many incredible people and so much love. 

The days will slowly but surely become just a bit more cool. The leaves will fall from the trees and we will store our tropical plants inside our garage. We’ll eat more warm soup and end our time outside much earlier when the sun begins to go down not long after the neighborhood children arrive home from school. it will be a time for hot chocolate and lots of reading of books. Sometimes it will even be cool enough for a fire in our fireplace, a kind of silly fixture in the climate of the Texas Gulf Coast. 

One day I must find my way to the northeast to see the wonderful colors of autumn. I want to walk through Central Park when it is ablaze with all those hues that I love so much. I want to sip on apple cider and watch the tapping of trees for syrup. There is still so much to do and see and experience when autumn comes each year. My hope is to be around to do those things.

All in all fall will renovate me just as it always does. My aches and pains will seem to miraculously disappear. I will be full of life and eager to arise each day to get the most out of the time of year that always make me feel at my best. 

I try to take a break from politics now and then, but living in a buzz saw of political chaos makes it difficult to ignore the ugliness that is taking place in the name of justice. I fully realize that there are well meaning folks who demand that our laws and the way we enforce them be utterly fair. The trouble is that sometimes what may appear to be fair is actually cruel and dehumanizing. 

My mother often spoke of her childhood during the great depression. She never had an article of clothing or a pair of shoes that were not a well worn hand me downs. Being the youngest of eight children insured that she would require cardboard in the bottom of her shoes to close the gaping holes in the soles. It was not until she was able to get odd jobs and learn how to sew that she wore dresses with vibrant fabric. Nonetheless she felt grateful that she slept in a warm bed under a roof that her family owned. She may of have been thin from the meager portions of food that her mother served each day but she never missed a meal. All in all she understood that there were many souls during that time who were literally starving while she was fed. 

Perhaps because of my mother’s memories of those difficult time, or maybe because of the example of my grandmother, my mama was always generous and nonjudgmental toward people who were struggling for one reason or another. She told me that homeless people would knock on the back door of her childhood home seeking any kind of food or drink that my grandmother was willing to share. She was quite proud that Grandma never once turned anyone down and that she treated the folks who came by with great respect. Often she was only able to offer a piece and bread and some coffee but those who experienced her largess would sometimes weep in thankfulness. 

As fate would have it my mother became a widow at the age of thirty and would live on the edge of the economic spectrum for much of her life. Things got particularly difficult when her mental illness flared up. Somehow she managed not only to keep a roof over her head but also food in her pantry. She had learned how it was done from her always frugal parents. All the while she was also as generous as her mother, had been never missing an opportunity to help anyone who was less fortunate than she was.

Many might hear my mother’s story and think that it is proof that you don’t need to give a hungry or homeless person a fish when a fishing pole might be just as good. My mother would have disagreed with this idea because she truly understood that there are times when some people have neither the health nor the bait to go fishing. She never hesitated to provide the sustenance that they needed in the moment. 

We have homelessness problems all over the world. Sometimes it seems odd, however, to see people living on the streets in the richest country in the world. The United States should be able to deal with such situations but so far we have not been particularly effective. We know that many of those people are alcoholics, drug addicts or mentally ill. We would like to lecture them on pulling themselves together but surely we know that sometimes they need a bit more help than advice. Each of those reasons for being without work and a home are very complex and most people are unable to simply will themselves back into being productive citizens. Without a great deal of patience and support they are unlikely to suddenly become well. I’ve heard of efforts that move in the right direction but there are too few of them to tackle the problem and not enough funding to increase them.

The best methods begin with providing the individuals with a safe place to live and the medical care needed to get well again. All of these things have to be offered with kindness and without judgement. There has to be enough time and patience put into the efforts to allow for mistakes to be made but with enough love most people will ultimately respond even if it does not work for a hundred percent of the people. Sometimes the minds of the chronically homeless are just too far gone but even at that any progress in getting people back to a healthy state is a good thing. 

The next effort has to be aimed at training them for work that will provide them with enough income to support themselves along with safety nets to protect them as they attempt to resurface into the world. This again takes time but programs that have been dedicated to this kind of methodology have performed miracles. Every life saved should be more than worth the time and money needed to do so. 

I suppose that I sound like an idealist in a real world that is often cruel. There will be those who insist that only toughness will work. They want to round up homeless people and clean the streets. They want these souls sent to detention centers to keep them from wandering away again. They recommend their method as a way of protecting hard working citizens from the rot and dangers of homeless encampments. They do not see these people as redeemable or worth the expenditures or attempts to make them better. 

I may be wrong, but I would much prefer that we devote ourselves to a nationwide campaign to help as many of these lost souls as possible. Every life saved is one more reason that we at least need to try. Without my brothers and I watching over our mother she might have wandered away one day in a state of mania and ended up alone on the streets. She had a family that believed in her. We need to be that family for those who do not have anyone. We have what we need if only we also show the willingness to share.