Author: Sharron Burnett

I often see memes touting the rules that were prevalent for my Baby Boomer generation. They all speak of a more authoritarian way of parenting than I never actually experienced. I’m not sure why, but I don’t recall many spankings or punishments happening inside our home. By brothers and I were certainly not perfect, but my mom, who raised us alone after my father died, seemed to have a different way of keeping us grounded than creating a system of stern rules and consequences. 

My mother always said that Dr. Spock was her guru when it came to child rearing, and that may be. I’ve never read any of his ideas, nor do I recall seeing a copy of his book in our home. Nonetheless she often referred to the venerable old theories that supposedly came from his best selling prescription for bringing up children. This included daily naps and a routine time for almost everything during the day, concluding with a regular bed time. We could almost set our watches based on whatever we happened to be doing at any given time. This foundation of set activities became particularly valuable after my father died when we were all still very young. It provided with a sense of profound security that we certainly needed to navigate our new normal without Daddy.

My mother created a healthy environment inside our home. She provided us with a daily regimen of nutritious foods for breakfast, lunch, dinner and an afternoon snack. The food that she purchased was part of a plan, so we never helped ourselves to anything without her permission lest she fall short in the meals that she had envisioned. She did not like us to waste precious food, so she taught us to take a small amount at first, and only go back for seconds if we were sure that we would be able to eat what we had taken. Nonetheless, she never made any of us eat anything that we did not want, even if we had accidentally taken too much. Food was associated with love, good conversations and lots of laughter. 

I literally only recall being spanked one time, and that came from my father. Even at the time I understood that I had crossed a line of defiance. I knew that I was more than deserving of the thump on my backside that didn’t even hurt. After that I never again received any form of corporal punishment, and I don’t recall my brothers facing the hand, or switch or belt either. Mama’s favorite form of rehabilitation was a calm lecture explaining why a particular action was not acceptable. She’d guide us with a soothing voice and lots of reasoning, and then hug us to remind us that her love for us endured even when we had crossed a line. 

I suppose that some people would see my mother’s child rearing practices as a bit too lax, but the proof was in the pudding. My brothers and I responded positively to her ways, and mostly acted responsibly. Somehow she made it easier and more preferable to be good. We wanted to please the loving angel that she was, and so we mostly turned our backs on temptations. We would have felt guilty taking advantage of her goodness and trust in us. 

Things changed after my mother became afflicted with bipolar disorder. The disease overtook her mind, making her fearful and confused. She began to use guilt as a tool for controlling us in ways that were foreign to the very essence of how things had been. I was old enough to realize that her illness was speaking, not the person she actually was. I suspect that it was more difficult for my youngest brother who was still in his pre-teen years to deal with the sudden shift in her personality. At that point she became far more likely to use words as a weapon, and often uttered devastating criticisms that cut to the bone. It felt as though her entire being had been captured by some alien force that we did not recognize. 

Luckily our good Mama always returned after a cycle of depression and mania. She seemed blessedly unaware of how she had been during her illness, and we happily embraced her just as she had always been. We reveled in the generosity of her heart and thrived in her love until the next time when we had to endure the horror of that came from her psychotic and manic moments. She had given us so much over the years, that somehow we always knew that we had to just muddle through the hard times because the good times would prove to be so wonderful. 

I don’t know if I should give credit to my mother or to Dr. Spock or both for the wondrous job that she did parenting me and my brothers. She made every single day of our childhood seem safe and wondrous and filled with unconditional love. As a parent I would learn how difficult it is to maintain such a steadiness from day to day, but she always seemed to simply delight in the privilege of being our mom. The sacrifices she made were boundless. We never went to bed without seeing her gentle smile and hearing her voice assuring us of her love in spite of the mistakes we had made during the day. The rules of my childhood were actually quite simple and might be summed up in a very simple meme, “Be kind.” 

Because my mother practiced what she preached, my brothers and I turned out fine. I’ve realized over time that our children are always watching, and they will either consciously or unconsciously follow the example of what we do, not what we say. We have to be what we want them to be. That’s the best rule of all.

I’m a big fan of programs like Dateline and 48 Hours. I really enjoy the podcasts about murder mysteries as well. Before all of the true crime series on television and streaming services, I voraciously read stories of real life intrigue. Even as a young girl my first crush on books came from the Nancy Drew series of detective work. I eventually graduated to Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple. My mother often said that I should have joined the FBI or been a private investigator. I revel in a good who done it, mostly because I am fascinated by the kind of human nature that would send someone to the point of murder. It is impossible for me to understand the depth of evil that would push an individual to plot the death of another human being, and yet such things indeed happen too often. 

I once decided to try my own hand at writing a murder mystery. My killer was a sadistic psychopath who had eluded justice and thus become more and more bloodthirsty. At first I was quite proud of my efforts, but as time went by I became increasingly uncomfortable with describing the actions and thinking of the killer. I did not like him nor myself when I had to portray his sick thoughts. Before long I had to set aside my writing, take a break so to speak. I never went back, because I got an sick icky feeling each time that I even thought of resurrecting the evil of my killer. 

I’ve never actually known anyone who murdered another human being, and for that I am so grateful. The closest I ever came was living near a neighbor who had been abusing his wife both physically and mentally. One evening his anger went too far and he shot and killed her. I did not really know him or anyone else in his family, but his wife had begun pouring out her story to my mom on multiple occasions. I would hear the desperate woman weeping and my mom advising her to find a way out of the situation. Even though I was quite young, it did not surprise me when she died so tragically, but it filled me with fear. I refused to even walk in front of the house where the murder had occurred even years after the husband had been sentenced to prison, and the children had moved away. Murder is indeed most foul and somehow that home felt infected and dangerous after that.

We’ve had a rash of crime all over the world of late. Everyone has ideas about what to do to curb the violence, but I suspect that the issue is way more complex than any of us imagine. I doubt that there is a simple fix, but rather we have to look at all aspects of what might be driving the pattern. I first wonder why there is so much anger and desperation Then I find myself thinking that there are just too many guns so readily available. I consider the possibility that our justice system is too lenient, but also worry that our media almost glamorizes violence. Our relationships with one another are strained as well. It is as though something is seriously broken, and taking a hard line law and order approach will only mask the real reasons why such horrors are occurring. 

As a teacher I only encountered a couple of students who almost seemed to be made of pure evil. I did not know if they were simply mentally ill, or had encountered so much hate in their environment that they did not know how to respond in any other way than crime. Most of the troubled students seemed salvageable, but often not enough time and effort was spent on saving them from a future of hurting others. I always believed that if we caught potential evil doers early enough and really made great effort to help them, that we might bring down the crime rate in a very humane way. Sadly, too many young people simply fall through the cracks and then end up being lifelong criminals. 

I’ve been watching a four part series on mental illness that is fascinating, but extremely difficult to watch. One of the assertions in the program is that there is a serious deficit of doctors and treatment facilities for those with mental disorders. As a result, the largest distributor of mental health care is actually prison, a fact that one of my mother’s psychiatrists once told me, but that I found difficult to believe. The program noted that a gathering in virtually any prison in the country demonstrates that the vast majority of inmates have a history of mental illnesses like depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, PTSD, and a host of other issues. It is not to say that all mentally ill persons are dangerous, but when left untreated for many years their symptoms sometimes lead to violent outbursts and crimes. Many of the prisoners actually become healthy while in prison, but because there are no follow ups of their care, they are soon sick again. 

I like the idea of being creative, but I think I’ll stick with memoirs and character stories. I just don’t have it in my heart to write about murder, but I’ll still be doing some sleuthing with true crime and fictional books. I’ll just let someone else create the villains. I’d rather spend my time finding ways to keep people from ever becoming so sick that they perpetuate evil. There is a great deal of work to be done to achieve that.

When I was a teacher of younger students I always had a desk filled with stickers of all kinds, even those that the little ones might scratch to reveal a delightful scent. I was always amazed by the power of those little images to motivate my pupils. When I awarded good behavior, effort or achievement with the portrayal of a little puppy or kitten or superhero, it seemed as though everyone worked just a bit harder. If I added a personal comment of encouragement or praise to the mix, the results were wondrous. The Skinnerian power of stickers always amazed me. 

I sometimes wish that there were some similar little sticker routine that would help to make adults feel better about themselves. Of course, when a person has bills to pay, problems to solve and concerns about serious issues, a little sticker of a smiling Santa Claus does little to soothe anxiety. Still, I wonder how many people have evidence of genuine compliments about their efforts on a regular basis. Positive reinforcement is something that we all crave, and sometimes lack. 

I once worked for a very well-meaning administrator who worked hard to guide all of the teachers to continually improve their craft. She spent a great deal of time observing us at work in the classroom and then holding conferences to share what she had seen. The trouble was that her entire focus was on all of the things that we had done wrong. Week after week she suggested ways not to do certain things. It became incredibly discouraging, because no matter how hard we tried, we only heard that we were not quite up to the job. 

One week, when she asked me to respond to her criticisms, I asked her if she ever saw anything good about my performance. She was stunned by my question, and insisted that most of my teaching was excellent. She explained that her goal was to find the little things that I might improve, so that I would become a master teacher. She was surprised that instead I had taken her negative litany as an indication that I was never going to be good enough. 

I suggested that she tweak her tactic by beginning with a recitation of the positive things she had seen and then asking if we had any concerns about our teaching that we wanted to improve. I believed that such a discussion would almost always lead to a productive way of building on strengths while also being aware of weaknesses. It would be a growth experience rather than a feeling of constant failure. That little change would be like a happy sticker of encouragement at the top of our paper. 

She did change, and with that little difference came improvement in morale and productivity. People, whether young children or adults, really do respond to positive reinforcement. We all want that little pat on the back, and when we get it, we tend to work harder to keep those compliments coming. Since most of us are already our own worst critics, it stands to reason that negativity comes across as punishment. We feel defeated if someone only seems to notice what we have not done, rather than showing appreciation for what we have achieved. 

I worked for many years as a kind of facilitator for my fellow teachers. I had various titles including Dean of Faculty, but I viewed my duties as being the person who would bring out the best qualities of each individual. I did my best to find the unique skills that gave each teacher the potential to become a rockstar. Sometimes a person was so naturally gifted and talented that my work was easy, in other instances the educator was struggling to find a sweet spot in the classroom. Unless the teacher had given up entirely, I found that the first step to success was in finding the things he/she did best, and then building on those skills. 

Essentially we all want to be appreciated. We don’t want a trophy just for showing up or even for just participating, but it’s nice when someone notices how we are trying. The vast majority of people will work hard if their efforts are understood and appreciated. None of us master skills at the same time and in the same manner. It can be discouraging to be that person who only receives criticism. The natural inclination in such a situation is to eventually give up on the challenge and on ourselves. It’s one of the reasons why so many grown adults speak of hating mathematics. They struggled at some point, and nobody bothered to help pull them out of the abyss of failure. It became easier to believe that they were incapable of understanding math. 

Keep a pile of virtual stickers ready for the people around you. Use them liberally. You won’t have to make up compliments because everyone does something wonderful on a regular basis. Put a sticker on their efforts, accomplishments, goodness. Life is difficult and sometimes cruel. Be the positive reinforcement that we all desire. You’ll be surprised at the smiles that will result, and the efforts to become even better that follow. 

Have you ever wondered who writes those little words of wisdom found inside fortune cookies? I suspect that there are old Chinese proverbs or stories that inspire some of them. Others are much like advice from Heloise or Ann Landers, little bits of wisdom for living. Then there are the cryptic ones that seem to make glorious predictions for a future that might actually apply to anyone. 

Where I live fortune cookies include a series of numbers that might be used to pick a winning lottery ticket. I’ve often found myself tempted to randomly use one of the suggested lists just to see if it is luckier than the ones that I sometimes use. Since the whole process is so random, the odds that the cookies will result in a win are about the same as just letting the computer spit out their choices. Think of how much more fun, though, it would be to boast that I became a millionaire from a little almond cookie that came with my take out from Pearl Dynasty.

I have to admit that some of the little messages in those cookies are quite clever, so I decided to try my hand at creating my own set of communications that embody my hopes and advice for anyone who actually enjoys such things. 

• When you leave the house looking horrible, you will see everyone that you ever knew.
• Don’t worry about picking the shortest line at the checkout. Whichever one you choose will take the longest.
• Work hard. Be nice. You’ll like yourself better.
• Never set up your Christmas tree until after Thanksgiving, except in a pandemic. Then you can have it all year long.
• A walk in the rain cleanses the soul.
• Learn something new every day of your life.
• Listen and think before you speak. Sometimes you will realize that saying nothing is best.
• Even behind a mask, people will see your smile in your eyes.
• Don’t wait till tomorrow to begin to follow your dreams.
• Make your bed each morning. You will be happy you did at night.
• Try something new. 
• Try not to worry. It rarely accomplishes a thing.
• Follow your own path, unless you realize you are lost.
• Wear clean socks and underwear when you leave the house. You never know…
• Be the change you wish to see in the world.
• Things fall apart. Be a person who helps put them back together.
• Call your mother. Make her day.
• The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Take the long scenic way.
• Save your money for trips, not things.
• This is more than a cookie. It’s part of your story.
• Watch and learn.
• It’s always more fun to share what you have than to hoard it.
• Take a walk on a beach at sunrise or sunset.
• Feel the sand between your toes.
• Never miss an opportunity to laugh.
• When you reach a fork in the road, take it.
• It isn’t over until it is over.
• Leave every place better than you found it.
• Simplify. Simplify. Simplify.
• Make someone smile today.
• Just get started.
• Keep calm and carry on.
• Life is a journey. Take it.
• Life is beautiful. Spend time enjoying it.
• Visiting a an old person is like spending time in a library if you ask the right questions.
• It may be trite, but live, laugh, love.

I just don’t get the whole hashtag thing! I’ve done my best to understand what they are all about, and just when I think I’ve got the idea, I realize that none of it makes much sense to me. I’m most likely out of the loop because I have never taken the time to get into the Instagram groove. I’ve watched a number of social media platforms come and go over the years, and it’s a pretty sure thing that by the time I decide to join, the popularity of the site will be on the wane. I like anything that is easy to use, whereas the younger media buffs appear to prefer a more challenging format that is less likely to include their parents and grandparents. 

I used to love Facebook because it allowed me to stay in touch with members of my extended family, friends from school and work, and my former students. Over time I found that the algorithms created for what I might see on my wall had limited my reach to the same small group of people over and over again. I now have to wade through advertisements that I care nothing about just to get the latest news from people that I know. After last year’s presidential election poisoned the Facebook well, there were many hurt feelings and shattered relationships. Many people who had once been regular contributors simply left forever. 

I have an account on Twitter but I rarely see a post from anyone that I actually know, and I have not once received a reply to any of my posts. If I were to measure my personal popularity by my following on Twitter, as some people do, I we have to count myself as friendless. Still, I enjoy some of the quick-witted humor and repartee that seems to be the hallmark of that site. 

Instagram seems to have become the choice of those in the know, but I’m just not up to adding another form of social media to my resume. I suppose that if I were to join, I would have to really study the power of the hashtag in keeping things organized. By the time I learned the ins and outs, everyone would probably be moving on to the next new thing anyway. Sometimes the whole world of social media feels like being on a real time Easter egg hunt with the Easter Bunny leaving mysterious clues in a series of hashtags. While I like a good mystery as much as anyone, I just don’t have much interest in mastering the quirky world of @s and #s.

I have a Snapchat account that I rarely use. It takes too much effort to learn its nuances, and find my friends. Usually their posts have already disappeared before I realize that they have reached out to me. I suppose I’m just not quick enough or motivated enough to keep up with the times. The clock is tick tocking away while I’m stuck in my Facebook rut. If I were actually sharp witted enough to master all of the various social media outlets, I’d be like one of those teens staring down at a phone screen all day long. 

Besides all of those hashtags and knowing whatsapp, I have to ask, “Whatsapp with all of the people ambidextrous enough to walk and operate their phones with a single hand?” I’m barely able to key in an intelligible post while seated and using both hands. With auto-correct I still end up with messages that I never intended to create. I’ve even ended up in Facebook prison for twenty four hours because I did not notice a subtle change in what I intended to type that made me sound like a raving lunatic.   

If you ask me, much of the trouble that stalks the world can be traced to the sometimes insanity of social media. What should be good, has broken down into hashtag hell. Too many people are dependent on memes and soundbites and hoaxes and outright lies for their information. The once friendly faces that only wanted to keep in touch are snapping at one another, tweeting ridiculousness like small brained birds, chatting in snapshots, and finding instant popularity in hundreds of photos that are cataloged by so many hashtags that most of us never find them. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like social media, but I just can’t keep up with the frenzy and I’m not so sure I would want to even if I had the time. I’d much rather take a walk or get lost in a really good book. I like sharing my story, but I surely don’t want to pretend that somehow I have such a perfect life that it makes others feel uncomfortable. I hope I don’t come across as a know it all either. I have been scarred by the divisiveness of the past year. Even my most innocent posts sometimes raised the ire of people that I know. Like J. Alfred Prufrock I am often declaring #notwhatImeantatall. I sometimes wonder if I am #toooldforthis. I just #wanttogetalong. #whothougtofthis? #thatdarneasterbunny! #needanap. 

Trying to stay woke is really hard work, especially since I no longer have the snap that I once did. I’m rather certain that I’ve already shown much ignorance about the way things work in everything that I have written. Try to be understanding. I’m just doing my best to follow the hashtag trail and hoping to find an Easter egg or two along the way. This is new territory for me. #doingmybest