Author: Sharron Burnett

A World At War

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usa-la_-nola_-wwiimuseumIt’s difficult for most of us to even imagine what the world was like in 1941. The United States was not thought to be a powerful force. In fact it was ranked eighteenth in the terms of military might. The country was only beginning to recover from the effects of the Great Depression. Most of the country was rural and there were still a majority of homes without electricity or indoor plumbing. The mood was isolationist as the populace here watched events unfolding in Europe with horror but an intense belief that our nation needed to stay out of the fray. My mother was fifteen and my father eighteen as December began that year. They were yet to meet one another and naively unaware that life for every American citizen was about to change dramatically.

My mother often spoke of December 9, 1941 when the Japanese bombed the American fleet in Pearl Harbor. It was a fearful and shocking moment. She along with her countrymen listened to President Roosevelt as he reassured the nation. She remembered how quickly people answered his call for all Americans to participate in the coming war effort. She saw her brothers enlisting in various branches of the Armed Forces one by one, and saw high school friends leaving the classroom as soon as they were old enough to lend their help to the cause.

World War II was like no other engagement in history. Its influence stretched across the globe, affecting people on virtually every continent. Here at home citizens of every age contributed in one way or another. Women who had traditionally kept the home fires burning took over manufacturing jobs. Industries were cranking out planes and ships and munitions at a fevered pace. Everyone rationed their use of critical materials, including paper. My mother-in-law often showed me the yearbook from her senior year of high school. It was thinner than a monthly magazine, made only of the cheapest quality pulp. It mirrored the reality of the time with row after row of photos of mostly young girls. The boys had dropped out of school and to join the fight.

When our troops first went to faraway places like northern Africa and the Pacific they were ill prepared to battle the well trained and experienced Germans and Japanese. They often found themselves overwhelmed and in retreat in the earliest forays. They learned on the job and became just a bit better as they slowly understood the demands of the new ways of fighting. I have often wondered how those of us living in today’s world might react to news of battlefield losses and situations requiring our troops to run for safety. Would we have the heart to continue the fighting or would we give up quickly? Luckily the generation who fought World War II was made of stern stuff. They were determined to do whatever it took to free Europe from the grip of Nazi Germany and the Pacific from the Japanese.

There was much at stake and the American people understood that they could not be deterred from seeking total victory. In that regard both Japan and Germany had greatly underestimated the will of our country. There are those who wonder if the world might indeed look very different today had the United States not allied with Great Britain and Russia in that great fight against fascism and tyranny.

The World War II Museum in New Orleans, Louisiana is a repository of the remarkable history of that era. It is filled with the stories of both the leaders and the common people who worked together to defeat the enemies and free the world from their dominance. With hundreds of photographs, artifacts, videos and research texts it leads visitors from the beginnings of the conflict to its horrifying end with the explosions of atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It is a touching and personal journey that is honestly and beautifully told.

The city of New Orleans was chosen as the site of the museum because it was the birthplace of the the inventor of the Higgins boat which was used to bring troops ashore at Normandy on D Day. Mr. Higgins was already making shallow draft boats for fishing in the bayous and swamps when the military expressed a need for a military version of such craft. He was ready to design a larger boat capable of transporting troops. The Higgins boats that were manufactured in New Orleans have often been credited with helping to win the war in Europe.

It’s been seventy five years since our nation entered World War II. By the end of the conflict the United States was viewed as a major political power. With an infrastructure unharmed by the devastation of the war we were poised to enjoy an economy exploding with innovation and production. The soldiers returned to an exciting time that included creating a new generation of children that would become known as the Boomers. The United States was slowly but surely transformed by the building of a system of interstate highways that made travel from one ocean to the other quicker and more open to all people. The same spirit that drove the success in the war continued its inventiveness all the way to the moon and back.

Those of us who were the children of the men and women who endured the uncertainties of war would inherit the fears of the atomic age. We would wear dog tags for a time to identify us in case of a nuclear attack from the Soviet Union. We practiced air raid drills each Friday afternoon, crouching under our desks in wonder and confusion. Our generation would be drafted into a new and different war in Vietnam that somehow never made as much sense as the one our parents had fought. We would march for the civil rights of our Black neighbors and those of us who are females would blaze new trails in education and work.

World War II was never just a long ago historic event to us. We saw those photos of our dads and uncles in their uniforms. We heard the stories of life under siege. We watched the old black and white movies that celebrated the accomplishments of our generals and troops. We saw the sadness in the eyes of those who lost loved ones in places so far away that nobody had even known that they existed before the battles. We were the link between the past and the present, the generation that watched the world change at such a rapid pace that it was sometimes difficult to keep up. We truly appreciated what the brave men and women of the world endured to secure a time of promise and opportunity for us.

Few people in 1941 might have imagined a nation so filled with the bounty that we now have. Ordinary citizens enjoy lifestyles that once belonged only to the wealthy. We live in modern homes and watch our big screen televisions that bring the world into our living rooms. We travel the world and study at universities at a rate that our parents never saw. We have much for which to be thankful and most of it resulted from the brave and unselfish acts of a generation that chose to defeat the forces of pure evil. Their story is on full view seven days a week at the World War II Museum in New Orleans. Every one of us should take the time to absorb the importance of the stories that are told there and to thank the veterans of that war and those who serve today to protect us. 

The Siren Call

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new-orleansI have friends who regularly travel to Las Vegas. Others are addicted to vacations in the Caribbean, camping in the mountains or enjoying the attractions in Orlando. I constantly feel the allure of New Orleans. I fell in love with that city when I was nineteen years old and my feelings have not diminished over the years.

I first went to New Orleans before I was even able to remember the experience. My mom had a photo of me sitting in a stroller in the Cabildo. I seem to be fascinated by the exhibit of old time submarines although I am so young that it is difficult to tell what prompted my curious expression. I don’t believe that I ever returned again until my honeymoon when I was a foolishly young bride only six weeks away from being twenty. I was madly in love and hopelessly naive, but not so much so that I didn’t understand the intent of Bourbon Street.

I enjoyed my first alcoholic beverage inside Pat O’Brian’s. I wisely chose a breeze rather than a hurricane and immediately felt a lightheaded buzz as my new groom and I wandered down Royal Street. I was entranced by the shops and the vibrant feel of the French Quarter. I romantically imagined some of my favorite authors walking in the same alleys as I did. There was music everywhere and food that was so delightful. I weighed all of eighty eight pounds back then and seemed able to consume thousands of calories a day without gaining an ounce. I delighted in the beignets, gumbos, pralines, and coffees. I had breakfast at Brennan’s and dinner at Broussard’s. I sampled po’boy sandwiches and seafood of every variety. It was a culinary adventure that I will never forget.

People often ask me what I love most about New Orleans and I am always quick to answer that the history is what fascinates me most. Rather than spending time gambling or in darkened bars I love to learn about the people and events that have fashioned this remarkable place over time. I understand why artists are drawn to it because I too feel an unexplainable pull. There is something so real and alive. It is a place that overcomes difficulties again and again with a kind of cockeyed optimism that is so very beautiful.

I’ve been to New Orleans with my daughters and they too have caught the bug that brings us back for more. I have visited with good friends, laughing and enjoying the richness of letting the good times roll. I have brought my grandchildren who seem to understand why this city is so special and important to me.

Standing in Jackson Square gazing at the St. Louis Cathedral is magical for me. Feeling the warm brew of Cafe du Monde on my tongue is akin to a shot of serotonin straight to my brain. It makes me so happy. I never seem to tire of driving through the Garden District or visiting the museums. The sound of the steamship on the Mississippi River makes my heart race with joy. I look for Uncle Sam around every corner and smile as though he is a favorite relative each time that I seeing him standing silently with his little dog as though he is out for his regular afternoon stroll. I thrill to the music of Preservation Hall jazz which is as pure and emotion filled as that genre of music gets. I enjoy a nice picnic in Audubon Park and a tour of one of the historic cemeteries. I could spend hours sitting in the square listening to the musicians and watching the artists at work. I seem to discover something new each time I walk along the streets gazing at the amazing architecture and learning about the people who have lived behind those decorative wrought iron gates.

New Orleans has had more than its share of misery. There were many who thought that it had surely gasped its last breaths after hurricane Katrina. It certainly seemed as though it would never be able to overcome the devastating damage that so most of the city incurred. Somehow there were enough people who believed in the place that they were unwilling to let it die. It has changed a bit but like an ancient phoenix it rose from the ashes to deny the pessimism of its detractors.

Last week an area of East New Orleans that had barely healed from its Katrina wounds was ripped apart again by monster tornadoes that destroyed two hundred fifty homes. It was a sad blow to the souls who had so bravely returned to begin again and there may be those who will suggest that they simply face the reality that perhaps they were not meant to live in a place that is so often hit with the vagaries of nature. I’d like to think that the citizens will once again demonstrate a willingness to persevere just as countless have done for hundreds of years.

Houston is my hometown but New Orleans is the city that holds the key to my heart. I suspect that I will continue to visit for as long as I am able. I have one more grandson to introduce to this beautiful place. Since he enjoys visiting antique shops I suspect that he will quickly be drawn in to the charm and grace just as I have.

I’ve never been to a Mardi Gras celebration. I am not one for crowds. I plan my visits around the big events that bring visitors to New Orleans each year. I purposely chose to travel there this week before the parades and galas commence. I like New Orleans best when it is quieter and more personal. I am a bit sad that my grandchildren won’t be able to be with us because they are all in school. Still they have requested that I bring them some beignet mix and pralines and I plan to comply with their wishes until the time comes when they will be able to join us in a trip to the city that has so captured all of our fancies. New Orleans, Louisiana’s siren call will surely lure us back again.    

Finding Courage

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confusionI have written a book. It has essentially been finished for more than two years and yet it languishes in the memory of my computer and in a distant hard drive that is protecting it lest my laptop suddenly crashes. If I were to take the time to do so I might have it uploaded as a Kindle or Apple book in less than a week. I would be a published author albeit by dent of my own initiative rather than interest from a company. For some reason I have been reluctant to take the final risk of revealing my story to the public. Upon self reflection I realize that my procrastination comes from enormous fear. Even though I place my ideas on public view five days and week, when it comes to my most personal essay ever I feel anxious about being misunderstood.

We live in a very contentious society. Words are continually being parsed and twisted into meanings that were never intended. Good people are all too often portrayed in very misleading and untrue ways. We take sentences out of context and figuratively burn people at the stake for having the temerity to suggest something with which we do not agree. We place our own interpretations on all utterances often to the detriment of what is actually true. Our sense of self-righteousness and judgmental natures have no bounds. It takes great courage to come forward in a very public way and so far I have to admit to being somewhat of a coward.

The topic of my book is quite delicate. It outlines my family’s journey through the tragedy of my father’s death and into the despair of my mother’s battle with bipolar disorder. Because we each perceive reality in different ways I have little doubt that my telling and interpretation of events my vary from others who shared some of the moments that I describe. They may disagree with how I have seen things and even feel betrayed that I have even spoken of some of our very private moments. I suspect that there will be those who do not understand that the intent of my book is to inspire and comfort anyone who has ever had occasion to deal with the complexities and difficulties of mental illness. It is not to embarrass or be disloyal.

Even in our very modern era we tend to have somewhat primitive reactions to mental illness. We do not understand the many forms that it may take. We still hide such diseases and too often treat them as personal defects rather than medical conditions. Our ignorance is indicative of our unwillingness to bring discussions of mental difficulties out into the open. If I mention that my husband has heart disease nobody recoils but if I speak of the bipolar disorder that so tragically invaded my mother’s brain I can visibly see the discomfort on people’s faces. Such conversations often stop abruptly because as a society we are not yet ready to face the realities of conditions that cause our brains to work differently.

There were times when my mother’s illness was quite frightening. She was consumed with paranoia and unable to complete even simple tasks. She became a victim of the delusions that raced through her brain and it was exhausting for her and for those of us who attempted to help her to get the care that she needed. She was not bipolar, she had bipolar disorder. The difference in the wording is significant. She was never defined by her illness. There were times when she appeared to be a very different person but she was merely exhibiting symptoms of her diagnosed disorder. Her true essence could only be found when she was doing well and the ravages of the depression and mania were not affecting her thoughts and actions. Most of the time with diligence on the part of everyone she was able to function in what we often describe as a normal fashion. At other times she experienced setbacks much like anyone with a physical problem might have. It often took time to return her to good health. Her condition was chronic. Like diabetes it could be controlled but it was never going to just miraculously go away.

My mother did nothing to create her illness. It did not come from bad habits or wrong choices. It was a disease that infected the chemistry of her brain without her consent. Her psychiatrist once told me that she might have never had a psychotic experience had my father lived. She may have just appeared to be a bit eccentric, a little manic or melancholy now and again. The stress of losing her husband and being a single parent to three small children only increased the likelihood that her bipolar disorder would become more pronounced without intervention. Since none of us had any idea that she was walking around with a time bomb slowly building up pressure inside her. We were all shocked when she had her first breakdown. It was an event that none of us were able to understand. We would have known what to do if she had been diagnosed with cancer but our knowledge of mental diseases was nil.

For years I was silent about my mother’s condition. Only those closest to me knew the extent of her countless breaks from reality and our efforts to get her the help that she needed. She herself denied that she had bipolar disorder, instead insisting that my brothers and I were being brutally cruel and unfair to her. She was very good at hiding her symptoms from other people but doing so was tiring for her. She often missed work because she worried about being unmasked. She did not realize that her coworkers had figured out what was happening and they quite lovingly allowed her to play out her charade. They were exceptionally good people who alerted me each time that she began to show signs of becoming ill again. They were courageous allies in our family’s fight to keep our mother as healthy and independent as possible.

These are the kinds of things that I want my book to portray. I want people to understand that mental illness is a legitimate medical condition and that each person afflicted with it responds differently. I believe that if we are ever going to effectively treat such disorders we have to become very honest about the mere fact that they exist. We have to teach the public how to cope with such situations in loving and rational ways. Right now we are a long way from being where we need to be but I believe that the more we are willing to learn, the more likely we are to bring such diseases out of the shadows.

Right now there are millions of people suffering needlessly simply because neither they nor those who love them understand that mental illnesses can affect anybody and that they are not signs of weak character. Having a mental illness does not mean that someone is doomed to an abnormal life any more than having cancer is a death sentence. We still have much to learn about how and why such illnesses affect individuals. I believe that with determination we may one day eradicate many of the mental disturbances that now wreak havoc on so many lives, but we have to have open minds and a willingness to honestly dialogue about the realities of mental illness if we are ever to bring the kind of relief and understanding that we need. We have to have courage, something that I am attempting to find inside myself so that I will be willing to share what I believe to be a very important and inspiring story.

No Golden Ticket

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the-analogy-of-the-golden-ticketWhen I was a little girl I often drove my friends crazy by suggesting that we play school. Of course I always insisted on being the teacher. I had a cardboard box that was ready for a very realistic rendition of a classroom. It held paper, pencils, pens, textbooks and even prepared tests and report cards that I designed in my leisure time. I suppose that it was rather nerdy on my part but my buddies and brothers placated me now and again by sitting in the makeshift desks that I created and listening to my lessons. There is little wonder that I ultimately dedicated my entire life to education.

I literally worked my way up the ranks of schools. My first job was at Do and Learn Pre-school. I met with my four year old students on Tuesdays and Thursdays in rented rooms at the local Methodist church. I so loved my little foray into the academic world that I became convinced that I had a bonafide vocation to be a teacher. I was determined to finish my degree at the University of Houston and get started as soon as possible.

I’ve always had an abundance of energy and so in addition to working at the pre-school I was also a Sunday school teacher at my church. There I taught kindergarten kids about Jesus. Evidently the nuns who ran the program liked my work enough to recommend that I take over the pre-school and elementary classes when they decided to leave for another posting. I served as the Director of Religious Education while continuing to work on finishing my degree. This gave me my first taste of being an administrator. I was still as happy as a clam and became utterly convinced that I wanted to devote my life to children.

Upon graduating I landed a position at St. Christopher’s Catholic School which was admittedly a bit disappointing to me because I had wanted to go directly to a public school. The economy was in the ditch at the time and there were simply no jobs for teachers that year. As it was, the job at St. Christopher’s was more perfect than if I had hand picked it for myself. I had a super principal who was innovative and child centered. I had great students who allowed me to practice my teaching skills and best of all I was the one and only mathematics teacher for the junior high. I taught the full spectrum of skills and even headed the computer and newspaper electives. I was happier than ever and certain that I had chosen the correct career.

When a public school job became available I reluctantly left. I became a self contained teacher of fourth graders under the guidance of yet another incredible principal who taught me so much about classroom management and taking care of my own physical and emotional needs. The children at this school were far more needy and underserved by society than my private school youngsters. Their stories were often tragic and I had to learn how to keep my emotions in check so that I would be able to provide them with what they needed.

Over time I taught multiple subjects, students from varying races and economic backgrounds, and many different grades. Each experience strengthened my abilities and demonstrated the complexities of teaching. Eventually I became the first ever intermediate Peer Facilitator in the Pasadena Independent School District, an idea from yet another of the outstanding principal for whom I worked. Today every intermediate school has multiple Peer Facilitators. I’d like to think that I helped to convince the higher ups that it was a worthwhile position to have.

I ended my career at KIPP Houston High School, one of the KIPP Charter schools, as the Dean of Faculty. By then I had been working with kids in one way or another for almost forty years. I’d seen public, private and charter schools. I’d taught reading, language arts, mathematics, science, social studies, art, theology and journalism. I had worked in daycare, pre-school, Sunday school, fourth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth grades. I had observed countless teachers and taken part in hundreds of parent conferences. I had been a Title I Coordinator, Gifted and Talented Coordinator, Magnet School Coordinator, Peer Facilitator, AP Coordinator and Testing Coordinator as well as Dean of Faculty. I conducted training sessions and taught mathematics teachers at an Algebra seminar at Rice University. In other words, I have been around the educational block a time or two and along the way I never lost my enthusiasm for my work. Now that I am retired I continue to tutor intermediate and high school students at both public and private schools.

With all of my knowledge and experience I find it disheartening that our newest Secretary of Education, Betsy Devos, cannot even come close to matching the depth of what I know about schools. She may be a very nice lady who has contributed generously to education and she may even be quite interested in helping to improve our current educational system but it takes way more than just a desire to help to even begin to make the changes that are necessary to make our educational system as strong as possible. It requires someone with intimate knowledge of schools from the ground floor up and I personally believe that it should be an individual with experiences that are so deep and expansive that he or she has a clear understanding of how every facet works. Obviously Ms. Devos is not that person.

The public is always searching for a quick and simple fix for our nation’s educational problems. Every teacher will tell you that there is no golden ticket or one thing that will make everything all right. Children like all people are very complex. Each classroom requires individualized instruction that is seamless. It is a difficult task to pull off but there are many exceptional educators who are doing it every single day. There is something almost magical about watching a great teacher in action but the reality is that it took hours of hard work and practice and self reflection to get there. This takes time and patience and has little to do with whether a school is public, private or charter. There are good, bad and ugly examples of each. The trick is in finding more of the really good educators who understand that they will have to be nimble when adapting to the needs of their kids.

Sadly Ms. Devos appears to be of the mind that the key to improving our American schools lies in turning them into a marketplace using a business model that assumes that demand will eventually supply quality for all students. Of course we all know that even in the world of retail all the economic pressure in the world will not transform a dollar store into Saks Fifth Avenue. It is ridiculous to think of education as some type of commodity and that allowing everyone to choose will somehow spur better possibilities for everyone. It is also a pipe dream to believe that a child in a run down neighborhood will be able to take the meager funds of government to a high priced private institution and suddenly be allowed to run with wealthy. For one, most such exclusive schools have long waiting lists, require entrance exams and cost well above government allotments. Furthermore they may or may not want to accept government money because that will make them beholden to rules not of their own making. Additionally, not all private schools are actually good. I interviewed at one or two that in all honestly should have been shut down. Charter schools are also of varying quality. While the KIPP Charter Schools have managed to maintain a solid reputation, many of those currently available peddle an inferior product that should not even be allowed to exist. The complex network of neighborhood public schools display a wide variety of quality from excellence to despair. The reality is that once the best are filled to capacity most children are still caught in the web of underperforming schools from which there is no escape. If the only idea for improving our schools is to provide students with vouchers, nothing really changes and we have wreaked unnecessary havoc for everyone.

I sincerely hope and pray that Betsy Devos listens to the counsel not of lawmakers but of educators who know more than she does. My wish is that she think very carefully before the burning bridges of our public school system. The project upon which she is embarking will determine the future of millions of young children. She must be very careful and very wise. Somehow my impression of her is not particularly positive. More than anything I want to be wrong because missteps in education will impact our nation for decades.    

Memories of Another Time

Published on by Sharron Burnett2 Comments

cristoreyhoustonI return to the neighborhood where I grew up at least once a week to tutor high school students in math. The area has changed more than a bit since I once walked the short blocks from my home to the high school that I attended. I suspect that only a few if any of the people who once lived there are still around. It was a working middle class suburb back in the day with a mix of blue collar types and professionals. The entire subdivision centered on the Catholic Church and school that most of us attended. There were other denominations and public institutions as well but Mt. Carmel was the main attraction. Everybody knew everybody and the community spirit was probably the best aspect of living there. It’s not an exaggeration to boast that it was heaven on earth for kids.

Our parents were quite active in providing us with a faith filled life, a great education and lots of after school activities. There was always something wonderful happening and the whole neighborhood felt like a combination of “Leave It To Beaver” land and an episode of “The Wonder Years.” My mother was quite wise to find us a home there after my father died. Our little place provided us with a sense of stability as we were growing up as well as hours of fun.

Of course things never seem to stay the same. Once I was grown and gone the whole area began to change as the old timers moved to newer homes in newer parts of town or to land they had purchased for retirement. It was just never quite the same. The new folks who moved in stayed mostly to themselves and my mother lost her sense of security. Her home was burglarized so many times that on the last break-in the thieves left without taking anything. We joked that we were surprised that they didn’t feel sorry for her and leave something behind. All of her valuables were long gone. Because she was alone and no longer had old friends on whom to depend nearby she became more and more frightened. Each time that she came home to discover an invasion of her property she was less and less willing to stay in the place where we had all shared so many memories. She decided to sell.

It was truly a shame because she had managed to pay for the house in full. She enjoyed having the extra income to make repairs and purchase a luxury now and again.  Because the area had generally deteriorated, at least on our street, she was unable to get a good price for the place. Essentially she had to start all over again making payments on a home that was little better but at least felt more safe. It stretched her already small income to the breaking point but she was always optimistic, believing that the good Lord would work things out, and somehow He always did.

I don’t think that Mama ever went back to see how our old homestead was doing which was actually for the best. The people who bought it did little to keep it in good condition. By the time that I finally drove by a few years back it was a sad broken down property. The roof was sagging and it looked as though it hadn’t been painted since the last time that Mama and me and my brothers had put a fresh coat on it. Mama had always taken pride in having a nice garden and had planted trees, bushes and flowers over the years. Literally all of that was gone. There wasn’t even much grass growing in the yard. It was stark and ugly in the saddest imaginable way. It literally hurt to see it like that. I couldn’t decide whether to be angry or just to cry.

I haven’t dared to go back again. I really don’t even like to think about how battered and neglected the house looks. I drive to my tutoring sessions from a direction that doesn’t take me near the old place. That way I keep only the positive memories of my youth that were so delightful. I picture our home at its best when it represented love and safety.

On sunny days when the temperature isn’t too hot there is a certain kind of breeze in the neighborhood that gives me a strong sense of deja vu. I can close my eyes and listen to the planes flying overhead as they approach nearby Hobby Airport and feel transported back to a time when the subdivision and the school were among the best in town. The sounds of the birds are just like they were when I was a kid and I can almost hear all of the old neighbors laughing and living inside their homes at a time when people still left their windows open and their doors unlocked. For a moment I find myself believing that they are all still there and that I might go see them after finishing my tutoring, but then something always stirs me back to reality and I remember.

The school where I was once a student has a new name now. It used to be Mt. Carmel but the Carmelites and the School Sisters of Notre Dame left and over time there wasn’t enough interest or financial help to keep things afloat. The school began to operate in the red without enough students or help from the diocese and finally was forced to close its doors. It was threatened with destruction until the Jesuits purchased the property and renovated the inside, creating a whole new high school called Cristo Rey. They brought in wealthy individuals willing to help support the education of students who might not otherwise have the privilege of an exceptional private school education. I now tutor some of those same kids and I have to admit that I am quite impressed with how well the hard working teachers and administrators have revitalized things for them.

It sometimes feels quite strange to be back in my old school fifty years after graduating. I tell my tutees about my own adventures there and they stare back at me as though I have two heads. I suspect that it is difficult for them to imagine an old lady like me as a young person with all of the same hopes and dreams that they have. I somehow feel that I am supposed to be there helping them. I have a deep connection and respect for the history of all of the wonderful things that happened inside those walls over the years. So many lives have changed for the better in the classrooms and the laboratories. I feel the spirit of all of us who launched our own lives there with the knowledge and confidence that we developed under the guidance of teachers and parents who truly cared about us.

As I walk through the hallways toward the library where I once devoured the words from books that opened whole new worlds to me I see the newest students experiencing the same emotions of joy and fear and discovery that were once mine. I know that we are somehow brethren. Some things like the freedom and wisdom and growth that come with knowledge never change. Whether they realize it or not those young men and women are part of the same long red thread of learning that wove through my mind so many years ago. We are bound together and no matter how different the world may become that red brick edifice will always represent the everlasting power and beauty of education.