Author: Sharron Burnett

February is a funny little month. It tends to bring dreary looking days with grey skies and cold temperatures that keep us inside. The year ahead appears to be long and uncertain in February. Sunny vacations still seem far away. The trees are bare, lawns brown, and flowers mostly gone in February. As we plod through our work days and school days in February it is often difficult to arise in the dark of morning only to return home in the dark of night. February can be a tough month to navigate save for Valentine’s Day, a reminder that love is all around us. 

In many ways February is much like the totality of our lives. There will be dark moments, dull moments, hard working moments that are tedious and difficult to endure. Almost always a joyful time comes along to remind us that what mostly drives all of humanity is love. Love is the way, the truth and the light. We celebrate love even when we may not even know that we are doing so.

Love stays awake all night hovering over a sick child or an aged parent. That same love arises early in the morning to prepare a household for the day ahead. Love prepares our food and then goes to work to provide more of it. Love patiently teaches us how to unlock the secrets of the world and how to be better people. Love mends our wounds and shows us how to laugh. Love accepts us just as we are. Love is our best friend sheltering us from the stings of hate. We find love everywhere, not just in a romantic setting. Love brings us gifts but understands that things are not what matter most for our happiness. We find love in the most unexpected places. 

I suppose that it is fitting that just when winter seems almost unbearable we fill our spaces with images of cherubs and flowers and hearts. We take the time to utter or write the feelings that we have for the people in our lives. We are reminded that love is always among us if only we look for it and demonstrate it. 

Chocolates are a tradition with love because they stimulate the serotonin in our brains. They literally create happiness. They chase away the dull feelings of sadness that lack of sun or isolation sometimes create. Gifts of chocolate are truly gifts of love. 

We witness too much hate in the world. It can be so overwhelming that we begin to believe that it is a more powerful force than love. It is easy to become cynical and to believe that there is really no hope for tamping out all of the negativity, abuse and anger that surrounds us. We want to retreat into our own comfortable worlds and look away from the horrors that exist. It is natural to shy away from trauma. We get enough of it without purposely seeking it out, and yet we see exceptional people overcoming hate with love all the time. They take on the challenge of eradicating hate wherever they find it. 

Jesus was love, but as both human and God he sometimes demonstrated the same doubts and weaknesses that we have. He gave the ultimate sacrifice of his life for each of us but had a brief moment of uncertainty when he asked God to take away the pain and suffering that he endured in death. All of our heroes of love still had feet of clay. We humans are capable of great strength and great failure all within the same lifetime. Our imperfections are part of our DNA, our essence. It is love that provides us with the courage and determination to rise above our frailties. Love has the power to conquer obstacles and to overcome hate.

This February perhaps more than most is filled with dark and foreboding challenges. We can answer the call to love or we can bow under the weight of hopelessness. Now is a time for harnessing the forces of love to become the light of optimism. While life may have taught us to be realistic and maybe even cynical, it should also have shown us how the power of love puts a lie to the idea that we cannot make our world a better, happier place to be. We have far too many models of love making a dramatic difference in the arc of history to believe that there is nothing we might do to contribute to positive change. 

It is February. The world may appear to be dark and dreary but love is whispering in our ears and urging us to use its magic. Look around you. Search for the love. Be the love. Love is not always easy but it is always good. Get to work right now seeking and spreading love wherever you go. 

When I was in high school there was a dance every Saturday night on my campus. If I didn’t have a babysitting job that night I was in the cafeteria swaying to the music. Back in the sixties a young woman had to wait for someone to ask her to dance before going to the dance floor and I was sadly what was then known as a wallflower. I fit that description perfectly because I mostly sat in one of the chairs lining the walls hoping, praying that someone would ask me to dance. Often that did not happen but hope sprang eternal in my heart and so week after week for four years I returned to the scene dreaming of one day filling my dance card and becoming the belle of the ball. 

There was a time when a rather small boy took a shine to me. He was probably no more than five foot three inches and since I was still only four foot eight I was a perfect match for him. He was not a student at my school so we knew little about each other and because the music was always loud we didn’t bother to talk much. Our objective was to just have fun dancing and he was rather talented in that regard. I looked forward to seeing him whenever he came. He always searched for me sitting in one of those chairs, walked right over, smiled and held out his hand as a sign that it was time to take some turns around the room. 

One summer he did not come for many weeks. I began to wonder if he had moved away or found a girlfriend. In the meantime I went through a growth spurt that was literally painful. In only a matter of months I increased my height to five feet six and a half inches. I had become a tall girl over night. Sadly my little fellow had not grown a speck and when he finally came again he rushed over with that cute smile of his not noticing my long legs wrapped around the base of the chair. When I stood up I was three and a half inches taller than he was and his reactions was one of horror. Without saying a word he literally ran away as though I had somehow humiliated him. My days on the chair resumed.

Over the years as I grew a bit less shy I would rise from my perch and saunter over to groups of boys that I knew doing my best impression of flirting. I suppose I thought they might take the hint and dance with me through at least one fast song but they seemed clueless about what I was seeking. Nonetheless I was persistent in my belief that one day someone would discover me.

In my senior year I often depended on the kindness of strangers, young men who came from other schools who took a chance with me. We had fun for the evening and that was all, which was fine with me. All I really wanted was to dance, not form a lasting relationship. Most of the time my partners and I never even exchanged names. 

Before long I was at the University of Houston as a college freshman. I went to a street dance one evening and met the best dance partner ever. We never left the dance floor and I had so much fun. Unfortunately he actually wanted to be my boyfriend and my only desire was to dance. I felt really bad when he put his little sister on the phone to beg me to give him a chance but our dancing days were done. Then I met my husband. 

I was instantly attracted to Mike. I wanted to know all about him and be with him. I had never felt such a magical connection with anyone I had ever known. There was only one small problem. He did not like to dance. While we shared everything else, dancing was not part of our relationship. I married him nonetheless. 

The years passed and we fell more and more deeply in love but there was still no dancing in our time together. I forgot about how much I had enjoyed moving to the music and did not really miss it all that much until things began to change in the more modern world. Suddenly nobody had to ask a woman to dance. She was free to enter the dance floor solo and pick up the beat all by herself. As a chaperone at school dances I would spend the entire night having a ball learning all the new steps to the most current music. Before long my grandchildren were old enough to dance with me. I would kick off my shoes and have the greatest time with them. Then they became older and felt a bit less comfortable dancing with their Gammy. 

One of my all time favorite nights was spent on the roof of the Rio Hotel in Las Vegas with a group of fellow educators dancing in the middle of a knot of people just swaying and having a good time. I felt so free and happy that the old ways were gone. I did not need a partner or an invitation from a man to feel the joy that dancing has always brought to me. I celebrated the new ways and wished that my generation had been wise enough to think of just letting everyone hit the dance floor. 

Now my dancing is mostly done solo and I don’t mind at all. Dancing was alway about the joy and freedom of expressing myself with movement. I finally understand that I can enjoy it anywhere anytime. I have finally become a dancing queen.

When I first began college I went out on weekends with my friend Claudia hoping to meet a new guy at the parties we attended. Things always turned out the same. Every young man who approached me wanted Claudia’s contact information. She was at the height of her charisma and popularity and while I loved her like a sister I grew weary of feeling like a fifth wheel and after a time she was busy going on dates anyway. I needed a new partner and that’s where my cousin Ingrid came into the picture. She was attending the same university, had access to a car, and was always up for adventure so we became the new team.

I’ve never known anybody who actually thought that Ingrid and I look even remotely alike but when we stepped out together it created an automatic pick up line. Every single time someone would begin a conversation by asking us if we were sisters. Ingrid always looked more like her dad and it might be argued that I looked like her mom, but in truth I generally resembled my father’s side of the family. Since our mothers were sisters it really made no sense that people thought we were sisters but maybe there was something there that we were unable to see. Anyway it worked like a charm and neither of us outshone the other so we always had a good time meeting new people. We even went out on a couple of double dates.

Our liaison ended on the night of our cousin Alan’s twenty first birthday. That’s when we both met a rather handsome and interesting friend of Alan’s named Mike. He had recently attended Loyola University in New Orleans but had transferred to the University of Houston. He had a preppy look that spoke of someone who came from a different place than our town.

While I was intrigued with him it became apparent to me that he was interested in Ingrid which was fine because I wanted at least one of us to land a possible date with him. Imagine my shock when he called me a few days later. I was so stunned that I asked him if he had perhaps obtained the wrong phone number when he got information from Alan. My question perturbed him because Alan had asked him the same thing in a round about way, wondering if Mike wanted to talk with “the pretty one” or “the smart one.” 

As you might have guessed my mostly male cousins thought of me as “the smart one.” It was a kind of scarlet letter for a young woman back in the sixties. Not many men were enthralled with brains over beauty back then but interestingly Mike had responded that he wanted to pretty one with the short hair which was definitely me. I think I fell in love with him instantly when he told me that. Eventually he found out that he had also selected a smart one, although Ingrid and I joke to this day that he could not have lost because we were both pretty and smart.  

I honestly hated the whole concept of meeting someone of the opposite sex for the first time. I was never particularly good at small talk or being flirtatious. Such moments were actually somewhat painful. Once I got to know someone I was fine but I’m just not good at all with pick up lines or first meetings. I tend to just freeze and quietly blend in with the rest of the room. 

When I was a senior in high school I competed for a four year college scholarship from Texas Commerce Bank. I was nervous about the interview that was part of the process but I was a competitive debater and felt more comfortable with public speaking than having a conversation with someone I never met before. The college counselor prepared me a bit with some possible scenarios so I felt ready for whatever came. Boy, was I surprised when the first question was thrown at me. The panel wanted to know what I did when I went on a date. Aside from the fact that I thought it to be a personal and invasive inquiry, I had never been on a date in my life at that point. I had no idea what to say.

I must have looked like a deer in the headlights as I attempted to fake an answer. I probably would have been better off just being honest but I worried that it made me sound somehow like a freak and so I babbled aimlessly about places we would go and topics we would discuss. It was quite pathetic and as I spoke it felt like slow motion torture. If given the opportunity I probably would have bolted from the room. I was certain that I had eliminated myself from consideration and as expected I did not win.

Times have changed so much since then. Nobody in an official capacity would base judgement for an academic scholarship on a young woman’s dating habits. Not only that, I find that men are less likely to be frightened by a strong, intelligent woman. I suppose that in a boys will be boys world there are still comments like “Do you want the pretty one or the smart one?” but such things may happen less often. Many people also meet through online dating services where all the small talk is already done with the extensive questionnaires that match men and women who have similar likes and dislikes. I think that in many ways meetings in public over coffee or lunch which is popular is also more casual and less anxiety inducing. Lucky for me I met the man of my dreams at my cousin’s birthday party and never had to worry about such things again. Fifty three years later we are happily married with a lifetime of memories having nothing to do with appearance or pick up lines. Life is good.

Our human natures are so complex. An infant is pure innocence but over time environment and  emotional responses to the world can turn that baby into a dark and frightening adult. The green eyed monster of envy colors the way we view the world. Our competitive natures can turn to greed. Our frustrations might burst forth in anger. Sometimes our thinking calcifies into hate and therein lies the greatest danger we might impose on the people around us. 

I grew up in a bubble of sweetness and kindness. We had everything we needed inside the compact area of my neighborhood. We went to school there, attended church there, purchased our groceries there. The people who lived near us were much like us. We saw very little diversity or variety in our world. It felt safe and happy and wonderful but it was not all that we needed to become thinking adults capable of making wise decisions. Our teachers stepped in to help us see that there was much more to the world at large than what we were experiencing in our little corner. 

In the seventh grade my teacher taught us about rhetorical devices and propaganda. She blew my mind away when she noted that even politicians in the United States of America used misleading information to influence us. It was mind altering to hear such things. My high school English teacher often spoke of our need to become citizens of the world. He exposed us to books, periodicals, plays, ideas that were foreign to us. He widened our horizons all the while expanding our minds. My college professors continued to take me on a journey of enlightenment that forced me to take a hard look at my own viewpoints. I learned how to question everything before succumbing to belief. It was both exhilarating and frightening. 

Then there was my grandfather who taught me about his own folksy history and his journey toward illumination. He introduced me to truths that I had never before been taught. He gave me books to read and spoke of the flaws of his heroes as though it was important that I understand that imperfections are part of who we are as humans. On one occasion he gave me a book about Abraham Lincoln, one of his most admired historical figures. 

I devoured the story of this man who suffered from bouts of severe depression and fought demons of his own while tenaciously holding our nation together. I neglected the assignments from my college courses to read the biography all the way to the end. I was curled up on a couch in our living room one evening when my mother’s boyfriend came to take her out to dinner. While she was readying herself I sat nervously doing my best to be polite to him. There were things about him that I did not like and it was uncomfortable just being in the same room with him.

He had known my mother when they were young teens. Mama had actually had a crush on his brother who would later become a respected professor at a university. This man on the other hand had accomplished little in his life. He was a sad character who had gone from one job to another and then lost his wife to cancer. He was raising two children on his own and he met my mother at a gathering of Parents Without Partners where they recognized each other immediately. The common thread of their youth had brought them together but beyond that they were so unlike each other. 

He was a member of the John Birch Society, a far right organization known for its racism and conspiracy theories. He had made my mother feel uncomfortable with his tales of intrigue and had even boasted to her that he knew people who would eliminate someone with the blink of an eye. She had wanted to end their relationship but he had spun a web of guilt and fear around her that became more and more abusive and frightening over time. I had grown to be wary of him and I continually hoped that my mother would find a way to break off her relationship with him. 

On the day that I was reading the book about Lincoln that my grandfather had given me this man began to spew a kind of political phenom unlike anything I had ever before heard. He insisted that Lincoln’s assassination was a godsend for the country. He spoke of the freeing of the slaves with a level of racism that I had never before heard. As he continued his tirade I found myself experiencing emotions unlike any I had ever before endured. I literally felt the sting of hate growing in my heart. I wanted to tear out his eyes and push him out the front door threatening him with the same kind of violence that he described to my mother to keep her in line. Instead I sat silently seething and feeling ashamed for lowering myself to his level.

Eventually his constant barrage of verbal abuse broke my mother. She experienced a total mental breakdown that required hospitalization and lead to a lifetime of therapy. My uncles had to visit this man with threats of their own to keep him away from her. She was free of him but not of the paranoia that he had spewed while they were together. From that day forward she had fears that I am sure came directly from his hateful points of view because they had never been there before.

It took a long time for me to eliminate the hate that I bore toward him. I did not like how it made me feel but just the mention of his name stirred emotions that I knew were wrong. Time passed but those memories never faded. Eventually when I felt safe from him I no longer worried that he would show up to once again disrupt my mother’s life. When I believed that he would not harm us anymore I was able to replace my loathing of him with pity for his ignorance. Still I wondered if some other poor soul had become the victim of his animus. 

I have no idea what became of him but I know that he changed me and my mother forever. My own level of trust lost its innocence. I also understood that I too was capable of the most despicable of all human emotions, hate. I had to forgive him and then myself before I was able to move forward. I did that mostly because I was no longer afraid of him. I was able to reject the poison that he had injected into my family and realize that he was a sorrowful person who had somehow been damaged long before he came into our lives. 

My mother never again spoke of him. I think her relationship with him had started from her unlimited compassion. She wanted to help him and his children. Once he had dominated her fragile mind her only goal was to humor him lest he do her or her family harm. The price she had to pay for her goodness was a lifetime of fear brought on by episode after episode of mental illness. Mine was the cost of losing my innocence and understanding than hate can fester in any heart unless we actively work to keep it at bay. Luckily my teachers and my grandfather had given me the tools I needed to overcome the destructiveness of hate.

When my mother died I was filled with an unbelievable variety of emotions. Of course there was sorrow that she was gone, but I also found myself beset with guilt that I was not able to eliminate from my mind. Mama had endured recurrent bouts with bipolar disorder that often strained our otherwise remarkable relationship. When she was in the midst of a psychotic episode of mania she became suspicious of everyone, including me. To protect herself she was aggressive, hurling almost unmentionable insults that I know were part of the her illness but hurt nonetheless. Sometimes she wore me down to the point that I found myself wondering if there was some truth to the things she said. Did I really want to totally control her life? I am after all an admitted control freak. Had I somehow betrayed her in forcing her to submit to treatments for her disorder? Were there times when I over reacted to her noncompliance with harsh words of my own and even that time when I grew so agitated that I slapped her and told her that she was going to her doctor and better just accept that reality? All of those moments came flooding into my thoughts mixing with my grief and confusing my mind.

I said nothing to anyone about the turmoil I was feeling, not even my husband or my daughters. It was something I had to sort out on my own but I was not doing a particularly good job of self therapy. I prayed to God for answers and while that gave me some comfort I was still so very confused. Dealing with a mentally ill loved one for most of my adult life had taken a toll on me that was deeper than I had imagined. I did not want to feel sorrow for myself. I simply wanted to remember my mother as she was when she was well because I knew that was who she really was. I was angry that I was still having flashbacks of our most horrific times and focusing on the moments when I might have handled things better. 

Then came a lovely plant from my dear friend, Adriana Stovall, along with a beautiful sympathy card in which she had written a heartfelt note. I don’t suppose that she will ever realize how much her gesture eased my pain but it was exactly what I needed in that moment. The lines that struck me the most in her message helped me to realize that while my support of my mother through her ordeal had sometimes been imperfect I had indeed done my best. Quite simply Adriana told me that everyone had seen through my daily actions how much I had loved my mother. I sobbed tears of relief as I read that thought over and over again. Somehow it was the support and absolution that I most needed in that moment. Adriana had freed me from the burden of guilt and I was able to move forward knowing that all that I had done for Mama had been motivated by love. 

Friends are remarkable. They do quiet things, simple things that prove to have so much meaning for us. All too often the impact of their actions are so personal and moving that we are not sufficiently able to let them know how dearly we needed and appreciated them in that moment. I once said something to Adriana about how much her words had meant to me but I don’t think that I sufficiently explained why. I was embarrassed to admit to my personal demons and how much they had pulled me down. I was drowning in a kind of self punishment when she reached out a hand and rescued me. I will always remember her for that. 

As we go through life the little things are the ones that become big things. The soup that Linda Scheffler brings me after surgery is more healing than my prescriptions. The sweet note and gift that Bren Ortega Murphy sends lauding me for my service to education and my integrity reassures me that I am indeed following a worthy pathway in life. The annual Christmas visit and gift from former student Lizette Coronado brightens my world, especially when it comes even in the midst of a pandemic. The care package and understanding note that my departed friend Pat Weimer gives my daughter Catherine after her miscarriage reminds me of the true riches of friendship. The lovely card from Jenny Brunsell in the long and sometimes lonely days of the pandemic brightens my spirit just when it is about to fade. The phone calls from Zerin Sahai, Nancy Gracey, Carol Klodginski, and Cappy Szabo when they sense that I need to hear a friendly voice tell me that I am never alone. The sweet texts from Lisa Weimer Anderson, Tricia Miller, Chrystal Smith Hebert, and Aimee Harriramani always bring a smile to my face. The sharing of good news from Keiry Hernandez reassures me that my purpose in life is a worthy one. These simple acts of kindness always seem to arrive at exactly the moment when I need them. They are the measures of what friendship is all about.

I’d like to believe that somewhere along the way I too have made a difference in the life of one of my friends. I have come to appreciate these relationships more than ever in my time of isolation. Somehow they have brought me joy and support just in time.