Author: Sharron Burnett

Living in the United States of America has given us the freedom to choose the direction of our lives. There have been times nonetheless in which fate chooses for us. In my own case I have encountered situations which spun me around one hundred eighty degrees from where I had been. The death of my father when I was eight was surely one of those moments when my world turned upside down. Later when my mother showed the first signs of her mental illness I changed course once again. Luckily I was able to use those challenges to become a better person. I set a new course each time that I have been called to take actions that I had not before considered. I learned to adapt to my the new reality. 

Such is no doubt true for everyone. We have all experienced differences between our dreams and the unfolding of unexpected events that forced us to choose new ways of surviving. How we react in such moments all too often depends on our willingness to adapt and our determination to make the most of a difficult situation. The world demands us to make choices that we might never have imagined. 

I’m certain that in the era of my grandparents nobody expected the tragedy of World War I, the deadly Spanish flu outbreak, or the devastation of the Great Depression. Everyone had to dig into their souls and find the courage to make the best of situations that they would never have wanted to happen, but did. They found ways to survive grave uncertainty and loss in times that they rarely discussed as they grew older. They left those times in the past and celebrated the joys of the moment rather than reliving the pain.

It is a human tendency to look forward rather than backward and yet we all might learn from studying the past. When we review our actions after the fact we realize our strengths and weaknesses as well as what we managed to do right and what we did wrong. Thinking about such things is not a form of self harm, but instead a wonderful way of being ready for challenging issues in the present. or the future. 

My parents were from the World War II era. That conflict colored much of their thinking. They understood the dangers of fascism and proudly spoke of their efforts and those of their countrymen to free people of the world suffering under the thumb of dictators. They spoke of the young men leaving high school classrooms to enlist in the military. They remembered rations of food and other items essential to the war efforts. They felt heroic in doing what they believed to be the right thing. It was not something that they had planned in their youth. Such historical moments are rarely even imagined until they come. 

My generation of Baby Boomers witnessed great upheaval from the mid nineteen sixties to the end of that decade. It was a time when we often chose sides. Some went to war in Vietnam, others protested the injustices of the war. Some marched in civil rights protests, others shouted, “America, love it or leave it!” Those years changed us and in many ways silently estranged us in ways that hid themselves under the surface until they were brought to the fore once again by a man intent on taking us all back to a time that he believes was far better than the one into which we have evolved. In doing so he has opened wounds and anger that many like me thought were a thing of the distant past. In the process he has created another historic moment in which I feel the need to once again make choices that feel uncomfortable but necessary. 

At the age of seventy six I lack the energy that I once had and would prefer to live out the rest of my years peacefully, but I suspect that there have always been older people caught up in the inevitable roar of history that rarely considers age. While simply looking away is actually a choice, it is not a viable one for me. I cannot pretend that I believe that all will turn out well if I just ignore the damage whirling around me. i know full well that my only course is to choose a side and take a stand, not so much for me but for the future of my country and all of its people, most particularly the young.

I admit to being afraid of what may happen down the road. I sense that I have been chosen to persist in speaking for those who are being harmed in the moment and for those who may find themselves in trouble in the future. I pretend that I am unaware of the abuse of our Constitution that our president is inflicting on this nation. I cannot be silent about the masked thugs in unmarked cars rounding up people based only on the differences in appearance and culture that make them targets. I have to call out wrongs along with other patriotic American citizens who are doing so. I can’t just hope that with enough patience all of the chaos will go away. My instincts and observations tell me that this is a very different time in which we have to act or we will one day not recognize the country we have so loved. 

I know that I am only a tiny voice that is only heard by a small number of people, but I like to think that our numbers can grow as long as we one by one by one raise the alarm before we all are silenced. Already our president is threatening journalists who state facts, speak truths and question his methods. He is filling his press conferences with those who flatter him. He has surrounded himself with those who do not dare to question any of his demands. His party of Republicans fawn over him and the Supreme Court is surrendering more and more power to him, making a mockery of the three branches of government affirmed by the Constitution. 

It is time to find our voices because surely there is enough evidence to alert us to the many dangers that lie ahead if we remain silent. The time is now. We have been chosen for this moment. Will we answer the call?

I know a bit about what depression looks like. My mother suffered from bipolar disorder and whenever the depressive aspect of that illness hit her she seemed to fade away as a person. Her usual optimism turned into a morose fear of everything and everyone around her. She would close her blinds and pull her drapes shut, creating an oppressive darkness even on a sunny day. She and her home became disheveled and she would cry for reasons that even she was not able to explain. Her depression was clinical, the result of a disease that overtook her capacity to cheer up. Without medication she sank deeper and deeper into a morass of unexplained darkness. 

Mama’s doctors had to be careful because her bipolar disorder had two sides. Left untreated the depression would eventually advance into a manic euphoria that was even more dangerous than her sadness. When she reached part two of her illness she felt invincible but her ideation was reckless and fueled by an inability to stop the racing of her brain. She was unable to sleep or to concentrate on even the simplest of tasks. Her speech was rushed and the words she strung together made little sense. When she was out and about she sometimes frightened people who did not know her. How were they to understand that she was a gentle soul even in her moments of great sickness of the mind? 

Hers was an extreme malfunction of her brain that most times could be remedied with psychotropic medications. Sadly finding the ones that worked was tricky and often her body would adjust to what seemed to be the perfect fix only to leave her and her doctors searching for yet another remedy. Her treatments all too often left her with side effects that worried her like gaining weight even though she ate like a bird. Sometimes her legs would swell or her tongue would begin to twitch. Then is was time to once again try something new. Little wonder that she often grew weary of the chronic battles and tossed her medications aside only to repeat the worst renderings of her disease over and over again in the forty plus years when bipolar disorder stalked her. 

When my mother was doing well she became her old self again, her true self. She was kind and delightful to be around. There have been few people on this planet as generous and thoughtful as she was. She spent her days and what little money she had making people happy even as many of her old friends and acquaintances drifted away, wary of encountering her in the midst of a bipolar meltdown. 

I have not known many people as truly religious as my mother was. She read her Bible daily and lived the truest Christian life possible. She never judged anyone, even those who had wronged her. She was filled with the kind of love and generosity that Jesus Himself would have appreciated. She believed that all people had value and so too did their beliefs. She was quite respectful of differences and urged me and my brothers to follow her example in so unconditionally loving the people around us. 

Those who knew my mother well and who stayed with her even in the toughest times understood that her bipolar disorder did not define her. They realized her intelligence, her wisdom and her clear understanding of people. I remember my father-in-law’s second wife gushing that she and my mother “got each other.” She commented that few people were as perceptive as my mom. 

My husband’s mother also had high praise for Mama. She told me at one time to always remember that my mom was one of the most extraordinary people to ever walk on the earth. I suppose that I always knew that but I would become so frightened when my mother was really sick and my frustrations would focus on the mask of her illness rather than the essence of her soul. I needed those reminders from people to keep from only seeing the horror of her disease. 

I was admittedly weary by the time my mother died at the age of eighty four. I had been attempting to keep her in a state of good mental health for over forty years by then. It had been sometimes overwhelming and exhausting even with the help of my two brothers who also championed her cause. It was most amazing and miraculous that her mind was as clear as it had ever been in the last hours of her life. There was no sign whatsoever of the horrific disease that that stalked her for so long. The mother who was saying goodbye to us was the beautiful gracious tower of strength who had guided and protected us through our childhood. Having her fully with us was a gift from God Himself. 

I am still an advocate for those with mental illness. As a society we are quite far from fully supporting  and understanding the individuals who are afflicted with such diseases of the mind. They all too often become isolated and spurned rather than loved and appreciated. We lose our patience with them and turn our back on their suffering. I would like to believe that one day miracles would take place for them much as they have for those with heart disease or cancer. For the sake of incredible people like my mother we have to keep urging society to invest in keeping good people well. We will all benefit from having them healthy among us. 

Mama was oft misunderstood but somehow she never allowed the ugliness of others to change the beauty that was so much a part of her heart. Look for the others among you who will do so much better if you stick with them rather than turning away. They need our love and our support.

My mother possessed a most interesting appearance. Her hair was a raven colored black that she never needed to dye even as she lived into her eighties. Her eyeswere a deep brown like a just brewed cup of coffee. He skin was an olive hue that grew darker whenever she spent time in the sun. She was an exotic beauty who often confused people when they attempted to determine her race or nationality. 

A Jewish friend insisted that Mama was descended from one of the tribes of Israel. A Black neighbor wondered aloud why so many white people came to visit my mom. Italians compared her to Sophia Loren. People from the Middle East commented that she must surely have had ancestors from their neck of the woods. She was a chameleon who some people thought resembled Queen Elizabeth. She joked that she should have been a character actress because she could have been made to look like hundreds of different people. 

Perhaps the strangest thing about my mother’s appearance is that it contrasted so amazingly with her sisters. They all boasted blonde hair and blue eyes. One might have thought she was adopted save for the fact that she looked very much like her brothers. Whatever the case she always reminded me that you can’t really tell where someone originated simply by looking at them. Each person is indeed unique and a combination of many different iterations of DNA. To classify a person simply on outward features is to miss the importance of celebrating the beautiful variety of people on this earth. 

I suspect that if my mother had grown up in Europe and under the control of the Nazis during Hitler’s regime she might have caught the eye of someone wondering if she belonged in one of the camps set aside for Jews and Gypsies and individuals who were deemed unfit to pollute the gene pool. If they had been privy to today’s genetic information they would have realized that she indeed had a tiny bit of Eastern European Jew in her background. Would that have made her a candidate for being sent away from the rest of society? Would her bipolar disorder have been noted resulting in her death at the hands of grotesque individuals?

I have been thinking more and more of such things now that people seem to be randomly scooped from the streets of our cities simply because they appear to share the physical qualities of Hispanics. She certainly had many of those characteristic features so it would not be far fetched to think that someone might turn her in as a prospective illegal. Of course she would have been able to ultimately prove that she was born here in the United States but her mother was an immigrant who never became a citizen. Would the current administration question whether birth gave my mother the right to enjoy all of the perks of being a citizen? 

We talk about laws and rules but rarely get down to the worth of each individual. I know that a truly religious person should value every person who walks on this earth but sadly many who profess to be devout Christians find little or no fault in targeting anyone who has dark features or an accent or the inability to speak English as someone who must be sent away. They are eager to push such people from our country no matter how that is done. They do not seem to view the people being targeted as individuals much like themselves who only want the opportunity to work and be free. Those are after all qualities after which most of us aspire. 

I saddens me that my Puerto Rican father-in-law now carries his passport with him at all times as proof that he has been an American citizen from the time he was born. He constantly points out that he is whiter than some people with Nordic features. It is as though people have somehow taught him that looking white provides advantages that even dark people like my mother may not have received. I wonder why in the twenty-first century we are still placing a value on the shade of a person’s skin or the language that they speak. Surely we are advanced enough to understand that such differences from person to person are trivial and actually make the world so much more interesting than if than if we all looked and behaved exactly the same. 

I long for a time which I will probably never see in which we see the beauty of every single person. I think of how much happier everyone would be if we just stopped comparing and making judgements about each other. Taking the time to get to know someone is so much better than ranking folks on trivial characteristics. My mother was beautiful just as she was and she never had to be this or that for everyone to see that it was so. We are all beautiful and that should not be so hard to see.

My grandfather had a repertoire of stories from his childhood that were always entertaining. He particularly spoke of growing up with his grandmother who took care of him after his own mother died in childbirth. His tales of life in rural Virginia at the end of the nineteenth century provided a view into both his past and his personality which was always a bit mischievous. 

On one occasion his grandmother was hosting a little party for some of her lady friends. She instructed young Bill, my grandfather, to play outside and stay out of trouble while she entertained. Because he was not the least bit interested in small talk with a bunch of older women, he was happy to be outdoors exploring. That’s when he noticed an old rotting log lying in such a way as to tempt him. He would later insist that he only intended to provide his grandmother with firewood, but what he really enjoyed was the idea of breaking the gigantic log apart.

Without thinking about any unintended consequences he began beating on the rotten wood with a large tree branch that he found lying on the ground nearby. It was fun to watch the chips of wood fly into the air as the weak spots on the log gave way to his force. His success in creating a crack compelled him to keep going with his task. Soon enough the massive trunk blew wide open and freed a nest of bees that had been creating a home for themselves inside. 

The insects swarmed around Bill and began stinging him on every part of his body. Not knowing what to do he ran for a nearby pond shedding his clothing as he raced toward the place that he hoped would provide him with relief from the relentless and angry bees. By the time he reached the water he was buck naked but he didn’t care because once he dove into the water the bees flew away. 

The ladies had convened outside after hearing all of the hollering and commotion. They were curious about what had happened to the boy. When he rose from the water in his birthday suit they all gasped and began making excuses to go home. Meanwhile Bill’s grandmother stood with her hands firmly planted on her hips and an expression on her face that told him that he was in big trouble. She wanted to know why he had done such a stupid thing without even thinking about what may happen. She wanted to know why he had destroyed the peace and joy of her party. 

I have been thinking about my grandfather’s story ever since I heard about Trump’s decision to bomb Iran without conferring with Congress or even considering what may result from his unilateral decision. Somehow I feel that he has created the possibility of horrific consequences resulting from his rashness. Instead of bringing peace to the world as he claims, it feels more like he has endangered all of us in this nation for reasons that need not have happened. Now we are all standing wet and naked wondering what the Iranians will do in response to his ill considered actions. 

It is difficult to imagine that any country in the world would not think that what Trump has done to Iran was a declaration of war. Which nation would not be inclined to fight back after such an incident? It seems that Trump has released a dangerous nest of trouble when he should have thought a bit more before taking it on himself to put us all in danger. Surely he now understands how heightened the possibility of terrorism has become when even his own Department of Homeland Security has declared the danger to be real. 

Right now anyone who is worried has cause. The Department of Homeland Security is on the verge of running out of funding because of the ridiculous immigration raids and quotas that they have funded. Hurricane season is here and there are strong hints that any place being hit may not receive the usual assistance that has helped people to rebuild in the past. A twenty two year old with no experience whatsoever has been put in charge of terrorism while Trump insists that we are on the verge of world peace. He complains that he has never received the Nobel Peace prize in spite of his many efforts to make the world safer, expecting us to believe that we are in much better shape than we were before he bombed a nation that has rarely been known for its live and let live attitude. At the same time he has flaunted the law and demonstrated extreme cruelty to immigrants many of whom were attempting to follow the laws.

I sincerely hope that all will end well but experience tells me that Trump has really messed up this time. I hope that my nightmares will not become real. I’d like to believe that my concerns will all be unfounded but somehow past experience tells me that a small man playing soldier has done something really terrible without thinking, and now he and our nation are standing exposed. 

Two women have left this earth and I find myself grappling with the loss. They were both people who brightened my days with their smiles, their optimism, their intellect, and their courage. Oddly enough I had no personal contact with them in the past five years, but they kept me smiling and feeling good about the world with their uplifting posts on Facebook.

Mary Ann Gorham attended that same high school that I did. She was a year ahead of me and I had little interaction with her until rather recently. I had been good friends with her sister, Frances, who was in my class. Frances and I had both been twirlers during our junior high days and we enjoyed many wonderful times and memories back then. 

We lost track after high school but seemed to pick up right where we had left off at our fiftieth class reunion. Mary Ann had accompanied Frances to the event and we felt an instant kinship with each other. The two of us immediately began to communicate regularly on Facebook and soon realized how much we had in common. We enjoyed many years of trading stories and making plans to get together in person but one thing after another stalled our plans including the Covid epidemic. Nonetheless I felt close to Mary Ann and I really fell apart when I learned of her death. Somehow it felt unfair that someone was taken at such a young age. I had hoped that we had many more years of developing our friendship.

On the day of Mary Ann’s funeral I came down with a rather daunting stomach virus that insured that I would not be able to drive across town to honor her. I wanted to tell her sister, Frances, how much I enjoyed the banter with Mary Ann and how she had often supported me with her comments on my posts. It all made me think of how we all too often talk about getting together but become too busy to make it happen. It is a regret that will haunt me. 

I was barely coping with the death of Mary Ann when I learned that Dr. Kylene Beers had also died. Once again I was stunned. It felt as though someone had punched the air out of me and I tried to explain to my husband through tears why Kylene was so special to me because he had never met her or heard me mention her. 

I first met Kylene Beers at a teachers’ convention. She was presenting a session on working with students who struggle to read. While it might have seemed strange for a mathematics teacher to attend a short seminar on the difficulties that some people have with reading, I knew that many of my students’ trouble with math came from the inability to read and comprehend well. I wanted to know what I might do to assist them in overcoming this kind of roadblock to their progress. 

Kylene was stunning and her suggestions prompted me to view my job as a math teacher differently. She helped me to understand that for some students it is not their knowledge of mathematical algorithms that is the stumbling block but rather their ability to know when and how to apply the rules. Reading often holds learners back so they end up hating math and telling themselves that they can’t do well when numbers are involved. Kylene showed me that there are many ways to teach reluctant learners how to take the building blocks of words apart to reach the understanding that they need to apply the methodologies of math. 

After that initial encounter I followed Kylene as her fame grew. She ultimately earned a PhD at the University of Houston and wrote books that I purchased and read with zeal. She opened her heart to educators everywhere by creating a Facebook page dedicated to enriching our knowledge of how to make reading accessible to everyone. I and hundreds of others followed her almost religiously. She was a gifted teacher and writer who always had a way of approaching even difficult topics with clarity and honesty.

I remember a time when she was quite disturbed that a book about Ruby Bridges, the young girl who integrated an elementary school in Arkansas in the early civil rights era, had been banned. A mother had complained that the story made her daughter feel sad. Kylene ferociously but ever so politely responded to the the mother in a letter that she hoped might reach the person who seemed to misunderstand the purpose of such books. In it she spoke of the courage of Ruby Bridges not just when she was a child but later as she became an adult. Kyene revealed that she and Ruby Bridges had become friends over the years and she proceeded to explain how remarkable Ms. Bridges became in spite of the prejudices that threatened to stymie her. Then Kylene praised the mother who had complained about the book by pointing out that Ruby’s story had made the child sad because she had obviously been taught to be beautifully compassionate. Kylene finished by declaring that reading has the power of helping to develop our best instincts.

Dr. Kylene Beers inspired me with her willingness to always stand up for those who were struggling. Mary Ann Gorham extended her friendship to me with a generous heart. They were both women who made my world better each day. I can’t imagine not hearing from them anymore. So many times they helped me to understand how truly good humans can be. With their deaths I have lost two people who uplifted my heart. Their memories will certainly be a blessing to me.