Author: Sharron Burnett

I suppose I was always a bit too busy to be interested in my ancestry. It was not until my mother-in-law began tirelessly working to fill in the blanks of her family tree that I even thought about who might have come before my parents and grandparents in the long line of history before my birth. I was so busy living in the present and looking toward the future that I never looked back in time. It was not until I had to conduct an oral history interview for a class that I was taking that I finally began to ask my grandfather questions about the family. By then both of my grandmothers and my maternal grandfather had all died so Grandpa was my only source for finding my roots.

What I found from my grandfather is that even he knew very little about his background. His mother died from complications within days of his birth and he ended up being raised by a woman that he called his grandmother. At the time I took down the information I was more interested in his treasure trove of stories about characters he had known than nailing down the exact information about those who were supposedly his relatives. I learned that his father’s name was James Mack and his mother was Marion Rourk. The grandmother who took care of him from infancy until he was thirteen was Sarah Reynolds. When she died my grandfather had to choose a guardian and he picked Lieutenant John Little who was supposedly an uncle and from whom Grandpa took his last name, officially becoming William Mack Little. 

When I really became interested in hardcore genealogy I found out quickly that my grandfather was virtually untraceable. After over ten years of serious sleuthing I have been unable to find any records on his parents, his grandmother or his connections with John Little. His story stops with those names and it is as though he actually just appeared in a cabbage patch one day. I have reached out to descendants of John Little hoping to find the missing link through them but they know nothing about my grandfather and nobody on Lt. Little’s family tree leads to any of the people who were part of Grandpa’s life.

My maternal grandmother, on the other hand, has a history that I have traced all the way back to Vikings like the infamous Rollo. Her ancestors roamed, and no doubt pillaged, areas along the North Sea including Normandy and what eventually became England. My lineage includes the Dukes of Normandy and minor members of royalty in England. Eventually Grandma’s people came to the new world and became some of the first settlers in Virginia. When the American Revolution broke out they served on the front lines of the battles and then quietly carved out lives in the new nation. My great grandfather, John William Seth Smith, fought with the Union army and settled in Arkansas after the war in an area that is now a national forest. There he had a large family that included my grandmother, Minnie Bell.

Since I was never able to find out anything about my Grandpa Little’s family history I assumed that learning about my mother’s parents would be impossible. Her mom and dad were immigrants from what is now Slovakia. Grandma Ulrich spoke no English by the time I came along and my grandfather had died shortly before I was born. The stories that my mother and aunts and uncles told about their lineage were contradictory and confusing. One version said the my grandfather, Paul D. Ulrich, was born in Cleveland, Ohio and sent for my grandmother, Maria Bartakovich, who was living in the Slovakian region of Austria-Hungary. Another version insisted that they were both immigrants. Unraveling the mystery took years and a few excellent hints from one of my cousins.

After a bit of detective work I learned that my grandfather had indeed been born in Austria-Hungary. His birth name was Pavel Uhrik and he came to the United States on a steamship that departed from Bremen, Germany. His port of entry was Galveston, Texas and he arrived in 1912. I have actually seen a copy of the ship’s manifest with his name and information. A year later my grandmother arrived and the two of them began their story in America. Obviously my grandfather changed his name to one that he must have thought sounded less foreign and my grandmother became known as Mary.

I was eventually able to find my grandfather’s naturalization papers in which he swore allegiance to the United States and denounced all loyalty to Austria-Hungary thus proving that he was indeed an immigrant and had not been born in Cleveland, Ohio. In an interesting twist my mother’s eldest brother kept his father’s original last name but spelled it a bit differently. He was William Uhrick while all of his siblings went by Ulrich.

A couple of years ago I was going through some family paperwork that had been stored in a dusty old cardboard box for who knows how many years. I learned a great deal about my Slovakian grandparents from the documents and receipts. Hidden among the piles of paper was a single slip of paper on which one of my uncles had named his great grandparents. I excitedly recorded that tip on my Ancestry family tree and got a few more hints almost immediately, but I was still tentative regarding the accuracy of my discovery so I posted something to that effect on Facebook. Within minutes my phone rang and it was another of my cousins informing me that she had hired a genealogy detective in Slovakia to track down our family. He had sent her information on our paternal and maternal great grandparents and great great grandparents but she too had been worried that he was just a charlatan peddling false information that we would never be able to verify. The information that I had found in that old box was the key to learning that she indeed had the names and birth information of two more generations of our family. She even had baptismal dates for my grandparents and the names of the churches where they had been christened. It was a stunning revelation. 

I spend hours from time to time attempting to unlock the mystery of my paternal grandfather. He was an only child who grew up in an isolated part of Virginia. It is possible that nobody ever bothered to travel into the hills to gather a census from his people. It is also possible that those that he called “Grandma” and “Uncle” were not even related to him. His life was so informal that his birth does not even seem to have been recorded. The first official record of his existence does not appear until he was well into his thirties. The story of his family may begin with him unless I get very lucky or pay an expert to do some real digging into his past. 

For now I am happy to know as much as I do. I have a row of Jim Shore Santas on a shelf that represent the many lands of my ancestors. From my DNA I now know that my lineage has deep roots in both western and eastern Europe and that the story of how I came to be is far more interesting that I ever imagined. I only wish that I had become more interested in finding my roots when my grandparents were all still alive. There are so many questions that I should have asked.

Who knew that even the most beautiful women in the world sometimes perceived of themselves as awkward and even a bit homely? I once read an article in which Audrey Hepburn admitted to often feeling like an ugly duckling. She laughed about being too thin and devoid of curves and commented that she really had a quirky face. Likewise Kate Winslet cackled hysterically at the thought of being considered beautiful. She confessed to always thinking of herself as the fat girl in class with facial features that would never qualify her as a model. When I was a high school teacher I learned that was was often the loveliest young women in the class who body shamed themselves for one reason or another and saw reflections in the mirror that displeased them. 

Learning all of this as a mature individual who had moved beyond an obsession over appearance was nonetheless a revelation. As a young woman I had sometimes loathed the way I looked. I was Twiggy thin rather than curvy like Annette Funicello which made me want to hide my boyish figure under baggy clothing. Wearing a uniform at school was a face saving wardrobe benefit for me. My baby fine hair would not hold the big bouffant styles of my era even with an application of an entire jar of Dippity Do. I suppose that I felt as self conscious as any human ever had so I generally gave up on attempts to be attractive and focused on preparing for the single life that I was certain would be my fate. 

Luckily it did not take me long to finally reach the point of liking myself just as I was. I actually vividly remember the moment when it happened. I was attempting to do something with my unforgiving hair and I laughed at the face in the mirror and exclaimed, “I like you. Don’t ever change.” I realized the age old truism that my imperfections made me more interesting. I didn’t need to be a Barbie doll. I became comfortable in my own skin because I quit thinking about myself and became more concerned with the people around me. Selflessness, empathy and compassion became my beauty tools and the more I really cared about others the more confident I felt. I also eventually understood that every single person has moments of insecurity.

We humans have a tendency to compare ourselves, especially in a society that sells us on the ideals of what real beauty or success actually is. We are both overtly and subliminally told over and over again how we should look, feel, act to be accepted. Today that pressure is way stronger than it was when I was young and feeling so gawky. Social media and the vast array of movies, magazines and television programs set up a kind of continual barrage of imagery that dictates who and what is in and who and what is out. Self esteem is boosted or destroyed by a single post on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter. Likes and followers are measures of popularity. There is a not so subtle bullying that is terrifying for those who are still in the process of finding and appreciating themselves. Because of the new challenges some never reach the point that I did when I knew how undoubtedly okay I was.

I recently had a conversation man with whom I had attended high school in which he admitted that he had wanted to get to know me back then and maybe even take me out but I had intimidated him. He explained that he saw me as one of the more popular persons of our class and that he believed that I was also one of the prettiest girls. I laughed so hysterically at his confession that I almost hurt his feelings, so I had to admit to my own teenage angst and speak of my almost paralyzing shyness and feeling of being just north of being ugly. We then talked about the ridiculousness of those years when we were so frightened and unsure of ourselves. 

It’s quite sad that teens do not have the confidence that comes with adulting. As we grow and experience the world and its people we develop our talents and find our purposes in life. All of that makes us less inclined to worry over appearances but it takes time to reach that wonderful point of feeling good in our own skin. I suppose that the act of becoming a swan or a butterfly is simply a matter of time but in the supercharged environment of the present getting there can be like gingerly walking through a minefield. 

The mental health of our teens and very young adults is being threatened not because they are “snowflakes” who are unable to take a little heat but because there is an ugliness through which they must navigate that is unlike anything any former generation has ever seen. The old saw of not saying anything unless it is nice is passe. It has been replaced with an anonymity that encourages ugly insults that would have been unacceptable in an earlier time. Kids today are being scarred in hideous ways by words that are difficult to forget. We have somehow given people the idea that denigrating others is a form of strength and honesty rather than the abuse that it really is. We are often more forgiving of cruelty than we are victims who break under the brutality of words.  

I honestly do not know if I would have managed to become a well adjusted adult if I had been subjected to the kind of viciousness that is so rampant today. I can now handle a comment that accuses me of being an idiot because I am confident enough to know that I am not. As a sixteen year old or even a twenty year old I might have tragically believed such words if they had been directed at me. Young people today are all too often the target of such attacks from their peers just as twitter has become a domain for undercutting and even firing individuals with whom we disagree. Being or feeling awkward today is tough. It’s well best time for those of us who have made it past those trying years to call out anyone who belittles others and the toadies who follow them. If we do not return to kindness and decorum in the way we treat one another I truly fear for the mental health of our young. It is up to us to help because growing up is awkward enough.

Reading has been a natural part of my world from the time I was born. I cannot recall a single day when my father did not spend many hours combing the pages of the newspaper and his vast collection of books. He often read to me as though I were a miniature adult and explained what the stories meant if I was too young to fully understand them. Likewise my grandfather was a devotee to reading who thought that there was no grander gift for any occasion than a book. After my father died our family had less funding for purchasing volumes to be kept for all time so my mother took us on weekly excursions to a library near the old Palms Center Mall. Holidays, summertime and car trips meant enjoying the luxury of reading for hours, a pastime that I adored. 

I saw a recent article about an Icelandic Christmas tradition that sounds quite lovely to me. Family members exchange books with one another on Christmas Eve and then spend the evening reading and sipping on hot chocolate. No other place on earth has a higher per capita consumption of books than Iceland because of this custom and book stores there sell countless volumes from September to December in anticipation of the event. 

I think I might enjoy living among people who garner such pleasure from reading. I find books to be the perfect gift and like my father and grandfather I can’t seem to get enough of them. Such is not the case with everyone. There are children whose families are economically challenged who are lucky to even see a book before they begin their formal educations. Such little ones are already behind their peers whose parents have been reading to them from infancy. It is often difficult for them to ever catch up, resulting in continuation of a cycle of poverty and lack of education from one generation to another. 

When I was teaching underserved students I realized that few of them had access to newspapers, magazines or family libraries. They rarely saw their parents reading and so it did not become an enjoyable habit for them. Often when I brought nice books for them to borrow I would never see them again and in my mind I hoped that they were being treasured by the students who had slipped away with them. If I had been blessed with wealth I would have regularly purchased volumes for them to keep.

I recently read a story about Dolly Parton and her efforts to encourage children from underprivileged homes to read and further their educations. When she realized that little ones from the area where she grew up had mostly never seen a book before arriving to kindergarten she began a process of sending each child a new book each month from the time of birth until they enrolled in school. The program was so successful that Dolly has expanded it to places all over the world and has even written several children’s books of her own to tell youngsters how valuable reading is for everyone. 

Former First Lady Barbara Bush became a lifelong literacy advocate, chairing a foundation dedicated to getting books to children. Her important work has made a difference in the lives of countless little ones and continues even after her death. 

I know how much difference reading has made in my own life. Rarely a day goes by that I do not take time to read about the news, contemplate editorials or turn the pages of a new bestseller or an old classic. The written word is magical for me and it keeps my mind active even as I age. Books and articles are like friends that I can invite into my world any time I wish and with the pandemic they have kept me feeling connected even as I spend my days and weeks and months anchored to my home. 

I have a Kindle that my daughters purchased for me several years ago. It is first generation ebook technology that works just fine for me. I am able to instantly bring a new work into my home without ever leaving or waiting for a delivery. My Kindle even saves my place when my eyes become weary and I stop my reading for the day. It’s compact for travel and works well on a plane as long as I have already downloaded my choices. It has brought me great joy time and again but I have to admit that some books are so good that I end up purchasing them in hard copy just because I want to have them forever. 

A real book appeals to all of my senses. I like the feel of the paper and the binding on the fingertips. My eyes delight in the colors and I am able to flip back and forth to particular passages or images. I feel free to write little notes to myself in the margins or underline words and phrases that appeal to me. There is even a smell of paper and ink that spins magic in my head, so I suppose that I will always favor a real book or an electronic one, especially if was a gift from a friend and holds a special inscription that forever reminds me of that special person. 

In so many ways books are living breathing bearers of knowledge and delight. They are the gifts that keep on giving again and again. They bring the world into our minds no matter whether they are leather bound first editions, paperbacks or electronic. They are purveyors of joy that never disappoint us or leave us feeling alone.  

Starting with January 1, I celebrate each holiday and birthday with a special joy. I have trunks and closets and drawers and an attic filled with decorations for the special times. I festoon my house with hearts and flowers and boxes of chocolate in February and become absolutely giddy when I see the signs of spring and Easter. Memorial Day was once a happy sign that the labors of studying in school were over and the joys of summer freedom were ahead for three long months, but the death of my father on that day made it the one holiday that I dread each year. The Fourth of July is always been all about barbecue and fireworks and happy summer vacations or gatherings. Labor Day reminds me that lots of work in school lies ahead for teachers and students alike but fall is on its way, my favorite time of year. Then autumn bursts forth in all its glory to color the land with my favorite hues of red, yellow and orange. I fill my home with pumpkins, acorns, chrysanthemums and spicy candles. In rapid succession I delight to Halloween, my birthday, and Thanksgiving. Then comes my very favorite holiday of all, Christmas. 

When it comes to Christmas the kid in me shows up full force. I have traditions piled on traditions that I follow religiously starting with the day after Thanksgiving or maybe with the sighting of Santa Claus in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Over the years I’ve added four Christmas trees to hold the ornaments that I have cherished that came from friends, Hallmark, Swarovski, Lenox and vacations. I never pass by a Christmas store without going inside. I have Santas from the many lands in our family ancestry. I collect Nativity sets like some people search for special stamps. I set out my gnomes, and gingerbread men and light up the outside of my house to the point of pushing the limits of my circuit breakers. I watch Christmas movies non-stop even though I know the lines in them by heart. I send out hundreds of holiday cards by snail mail.

I suppose that I enjoy Christmas more than any other time of year not so much because of the trappings but mostly because it has always represented hope and joy and all that is truly important in our lives. We seem to set aside our differences in this holy time that for me is a remembrance of the birth of a child who would change the way we all view the world. His constant message of unconditional love has lived through the ages and following his example has helped us to overcome our human challenges over and over again. 

For me Christmas is about family and friends and feeling like a member of a human race that is bigger than its individual parts and nations. It is a quiet if unspoken time of unity sometimes even in times of war. Somehow we do not feel all that different from one another at Christmastime. For me Christmas is steeped in religion but I love that it is inclusive enough to allow even those of other faiths and no faiths at all to feel the love that is its essence. Somehow I believe that Christ himself would find joy in the celebrations whether they be Christian or Catholic or Jewish or Muslim or of any other beliefs, or non beliefs. Its spirit of giving encapsulates the best in us as people. 

We’ve gone a bit crazy with our Black Fridays and shopping sprees that sometimes overshadow the true meaning of this holiday. We fight over whether we should keep Christ in Christmas or just accept greetings of Happy Holidays. We forget how lovely it is that we can celebrate our oneness as people all the world over regardless of how our philosophies differ. We disregard the stories of Jesus demonstrating that sometimes strict adherence to religious laws created by people can be outmoded and unkind. He taught us that it is more important to save someone on the Sabbath than to let them die because a ridiculous rule tells us that we cannot work on a particular day of the week. We forget that Jesus bucked the religious system of his time and died like a criminal for that very reason. I think he delights in seeing us simply love rather than judge. 

I remember a Christmas when I was eight years old and we were thousands of miles away from the place I called home. We had moved from Houston to San Jose only weeks before and had yet to make friends or find a niche in which we felt comfortable. There were no computers to schedule Zoom meetings back then nor did we have cell phones that would connect us through texts or Facetime. We were all alone, knowing that our big extended family and friends would be gathering together just as they had always done. I still feel the misery that filled my heart as I longed to celebrate Christmas, not as a time for Santa to come but as the joyful moment to connect with people I loved. I suppose it was when I understood more than ever what Christmas was all about. Never again would it be just a time for gifts or decorations. 

This Christmas may be quite different. I already know that I will not be gathering with my ever growing extended family on Christmas Eve just as I have done for my entire life save for that Christmas in San Jose and couple of times when I was sick. My annual Christmas Day bash will be greatly scaled back much as my Thanksgiving Day was this year. Covid-19 has forced us all to rethink our plans and find ways of feeling joy without all of the traditions or even the hugs. I know that it will be okay and I will enjoy it as much as I ever have regardless of how different it may be. I can wait just as people waited for the birth of that little boy in the long ago. I know what it is really all about and that alone will bring me the greatest of joy that will follow me all the year long. 

As we travel through life there always seem to be people who help us to become better versions of ourselves. Sometimes it is their job to mentor us and sometimes they simply impact us by example. Few of us become who we were meant to be without other people leaving a positive mark on our souls. We are constantly learning from others in ways both big and small.

I was recently asked if I’d ever had a mentor and as I considered the query I realized that there had been many individuals who had changed my life for the better because of the interest that they took in my welfare. I don’t know if all of them purposely set out to help me but somehow they did. 

Back in the long ago we had a neighbor named Pat Wright who had the artistic flair of an Auntie Mame. She was a free spirit who turned even the furnishing of her home into a work of art. She often invited me to spend time with her learning how to draw and create images of the world around me. I was so young at the time that I recall few details of those events other than the feeling that I adored everything about Mrs. Wright and the environment she had created for herself. She always made me feel important and appreciated and she encouraged me by nurturing my creative talents. 

We moved away from the neighborhood where Pat Wright lived when I was only six years old and I never had an opportunity to see her again. Somehow her influence on me was so great that in all the years that followed I never forgot her. Such is the importance of small gestures of kindness.

Many years later when I was in college at the University of Houston I was slated to take a required class from Dr. Howard Jones. Reviews of his course were varied with many speaking of his zaniness and others suggesting that he was far too tough. I was a bit worried but dove into the inevitable. By the end of the first class I knew that I had found a kindred spirit in Dr. Jones who had asked us to call him Howie. He indeed had high exceptions for all of his students but that was because he understood the difficulty of the careers in education that lie ahead of us. I clung to his every word and when it came time to graduate he offered to help me find a teaching position in a year in which there was such a glut of jobs that few schools were hiring. 

I only saw Dr. Jones once after I threw myself into teaching. I was in the process of applying for graduate school when I encountered him in the parking lot of the university. He looked old and a bit feeble. His energy appeared to have dimmed but I knew him right away and so I introduced myself since I had changed even more than he had. His eyes brightened with recognition and he told me that he had kept the note of gratitude that I had written to him inside one of the drawers of his desk. He admitted that he had read and re-read it many times whenever he felt a bit discouraged and worried that he was not adequately helping his students. It made me feel quite good to know that I had somehow returned the favor of touching his heart the way he had burrowed into mine.

There would be other remarkable individuals who took the time to guide me in my journey as an adult and a teacher. Joyce Eversole spent countless hours patiently showing me how to understand and inspire the children who came to my classroom. Lucas Vegas invested time and funding in my continued development as an educator, encouraging me to expand my repertoire of best practices. David Kendler saw my leadership abilities and went an extra mile in using them by creating a special role for me as a facilitator and mentor of other teachers. Ken Estrella allowed me to share my humble expertise with my peers as the Dean of Faculty. One by one these remarkable people took the time to help me to become more than I had ever thought of myself as being. 

I would be remiss if I did not mention one more very special person who literally changed my world. When I was taking courses for my advanced degree I encountered Dr. Roger Durand in yet another required course called Public Administration. He was as fascinating to me as Pat Wright had been all those years before. He came to class elegantly dressed and he explained the politics of the public sector and for that matter everything in the world in ways both amusing and insightful. I felt as though his class provided me with an insider’s view of reality. I literally learned more from him than virtually anyone I had ever before met. 

Dr. Durand taught other classes that were not required for my degree but I enjoyed his knowledge so much that I signed up for every course that he taught. I became a familiar face to him, so much so that he recognized my section of writing on a group project that clumsily cobbled together the work of six people into a single rather wretched paper. I was the only one who received an A for the effort because he had discerned that I had also been the poor soul who had tried to make some sense of the messy contributions handed to me just before the paper was due. 

When I was about to finish all of the requirements for my Masters degree I received a notice indicating that I was short by three hours of coursework. I did the math and knew that this was incorrect. Sadly no amount of proof satisfied the clerk who stood in my way of graduation. When my exasperation grew to desperation the young lady told me that the only avenue left for me other than taking another course in the fall would be to find a professor willing to sponsor me in an independent study. I immediately thought of Dr Durand but I would have to work quickly because the university was about to shut down for an extended summer break so I sent Dr. Durand an email in a time which such communications were still mainly the quirky domain of universities. I described my dilemma and mentioned that I would be on campus taking a final exam the following day. I somewhat sarcastically suggested that if Dr. Durand agreed to help me I would be certain that there is a God. 

The next evening I was just finishing my test when I heard a booming voice float over the classroom like a miracle. “Sharron Burnett,” it said “God is here.” I looked up to see Dr. Durand smiling mischievously at me in the doorway. He pointed in the direction of his office and I understood that he was going to help. Indeed he had already filled out the paperwork to make the independent study possible and he walked me to the office where we all sealed the deal. A few weeks later I received a grade of A+ for the paper even though I had not yet sent it to him. I finished the project anyway and thanked him profusely for taking such an interest in my future. 

There are angels out there who pass our way and even change the trajectory of our lives. They are people who see what is special about us even when we may not see those things ourselves. They go an extra mile in helping us, saving and guiding us to places of which we have never dreamed. Sometimes they even seem like the earthly incarnation of God.