Author: Sharron Burnett

One Size Rarely Fits All

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teacher_block_scheduleMorning time is still quiet in my neighborhood. The big yellow school bus that stops just outside of my living room window won’t be picking up children until next week. Nonetheless today virtually every school teacher in the state and a significant number of students are officially back on duty for the new school year. Thus begins the annual effort to educate our youth accompanied by the criticisms of our educational system that are certain to come from parents and pundits, professors and proletariat. Everyone has an opinion when it comes to how best to teach our children and for as long as I have been associated with that profession most of the critiques have leaned toward the negative. In spite of all of our discussions it sometimes seems as though we never quite escape from the sense that somehow we have failed our teachers and our kids.

Bashing our schools and the hard working individuals who man the classrooms inside them is a perennially favorite topic of office seekers who lay claim to having the magical answers that will instantly solve all of the problems that plague our educational system. Of course the truth is that they and many of those who vote for them oversimplify both the perceived difficulties as well as the solutions. Only those who have spent enough time inside a classroom doing the heavy lifting have a true concept of what happens from day to day and few of them are ever consulted for ideas.

It has been suggested by those who analyze such things that it is only after at least five years of experience that a teacher is truly battle tested. While there are naturals and rock stars within the teaching profession just as in sporting events, their true greatness usually doesn’t exhibit itself until they have garnered a thousand days of dealing with a variety of students. The laws of probability make it likely that the more tested educators will have encountered both rewarding and challenging situations. These experiences will either have enhanced their abilities or encouraged them to choose a different profession. Teaching is so difficult from day to day that few who lack the necessary determination and skills are willing to stay for more than two or three years. Sadly there is a tendency in today’s world to promote sorely unprepared individuals to leadership positions based only on a couple of good years in the trenches along with credentials from top rated universities. In far too many schools the leaders know far less than their battle tested underlings. Their experiments often lead to both a loss of talented teachers and dire consequences for students.

I have walked thousands of miles in a teacher’s shoes. I’ve worn out my feet and my bladder moving around classrooms and monitoring hallways. I’ve been observed by my superiors just as I have observed other educators. I’ve had good days and bad and seen excellence and failure. I suspect that I know a bit about how best to teach our young but not really enough to tout myself as an expert. Still I have a few ideas that seem to point in the right direction for improvement of our systems. 

Several years ago I worked at South Houston Intermediate. There were times when I had so many students that I struggled to fit the desks inside my classroom. I had already learned that the problems that crop up are increased exponentially with the addition of each student after around twenty five. My finest teaching moments always came when I had a group of around twenty to twenty two kids. I had enough time and energy to provide them with a more individualized experience.

Many students need extra attention in order to learn. Pacing of a lesson to include one on one interventions is crucial, particularly in subjects like mathematics. If a teacher has thirty students for fifty five minutes it is often impossible to provide the necessary time to those who are struggling to understand a concept. Removing only five students from the equation is likely to make the situation more doable. It is a fact that smaller class sizes improve the odds that more individualized instruction will happen and less time will be spent putting out classroom management fires.

A few years back the powers that be decided to make South Houston Intermediate a seventh and eight grade campus and to move the sixth graders to a different building. The difference in the general atmosphere is astounding. Movement in the hallways is more fluid with fewer altercations and misunderstandings occurring without the crowding that existed when I worked there. Students are more likely to be on time for the beginning of each period. There are fewer of them in each area of the building. Class sizes are smaller. The change has created a much happier place for everyone but most importantly it has given each and every student and teacher more opportunity to interact. It is less likely that someone will fall through the cracks than when we were crammed inside the school like sardines.

There are now curriculum specialists on campus to assist teachers in every subject area as well. They are individuals with many years of experience who know the challenges that teachers face. Their goal is to alleviate many of the time devouring activities that distract educators from the heart of their work. When those who teach become paper pushers their students suffer. The facilitators at South Houston work alongside the classroom instructors to ensure that students are getting the best of their teachers’ energy and talent. The educators feel less isolated and alone in dealing with the many challenges that they encounter from day to day. The specialists are available to mentor, guide and help rather than create more work for often beleaguered teachers. The system creates a more dynamic and student centered school.

Reducing the size of schools and providing teachers with dedicated and expert facilitators are simple ideas that help to place the focus on what is most important, the individual student. There really is no one size fits all in instruction. The best teachers are adept at quickly shifting gears as the situation demands. They know the strengths and weaknesses of every child who depends on them. Watching them from one moment to another reveals that they are fluid and expert in creating unique lessons that enhance the experience of everyone. When given the right tools, support and optimal numbers of students the results are often magical. Education is seen at its best. Sadly such supports exist in very few schools.

Those who make decisions regarding our schools spend millions and millions of dollars each year and often miss the mark. They waste precious resources on trends that make promises that are unlikely to be fulfilled. They purchase tools that will quickly be broken and outdated without providing the desired results. They train and retrain teachers in methods that supposedly work for all but which fall far short of classroom realities. Perhaps if they were instead to give teachers the gifts of time and space they might find that everyone is more productive and able to reach desired goals.  

The Simones

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simone-biles-simone-manuel_mq9r77ikg0jq1jtwm8xlwuccrThe Houston Metropolitan area sprawls over more than five hundred square miles. It’s as flat as a pancake making its resemblance to a patchwork quilt rather striking. It is home to the most diverse population in the United States partially because of its proximity to a busy port but mostly due to an abundance of jobs and moderate housing prices. Even with its humid sub tropical climate, air conditioning makes it a great location for living and working so that people from all parts of the world have chosen it as a place to raise their families.

On any given weekend Houston area parents are out in force watching their little ones participate in sporting events. The sound of cheering resonates from soccer fields to baseball diamonds, natatoriums to gymnasiums. As a grandmother and godmother to very active children I have traveled from the Houston suburbs of Sugarland to Magnolia to watch the youngsters compete. I’ve watched them race around a track and get their noses crushed into the dirt of a football field. I’ve sat through days long swim meets and on occasion carted them to and fro from practices. I’ve watched them grow and mature into the sports of their choosing as they specialize and become more and more adept.

I have two grandsons, Benjamin and Eli, who have excelled at every athletic effort they have tried. They have been outstanding swimmers since they were barely five years old. Early on they were members of the Greatwood Gators summer swim team in Sugarland along with their older brothers who taught them all of the strokes and the secrets to diving into the pool. The two boys showed such promise that they decided to join the First Colony USA swim team where they now practice at least five days a week rain or shine, hot or cold. Their calendars are full as they participate in meets and camps across the region and the state along with the friends and role models that they have made along the way. It was in this way that they met another swimmer who was like a big sister to them. Her name is Simone Manuel and she has at times both helped and inspired them as they have slowly risen through the ranks of competitive swimming.

Benjamin and Eli understand as well as anyone how much dedication and hard work is needed to become a champion. They strive continually for the possibility of shaving hundredths of a second off of a race time. They compete not so much with others as with themselves. They are individuals and members of a team that encourages one another and celebrates victories together. Last night one of their own swam in the Olympics in Rio. They and their whole family and all of Sugarland and the Houston area were cheering Simone Manuel as she won the gold with an Olympic record, becoming the first African American woman to medal in swimming. I can only imagine how breathtaking and motivational this moment was for them. Simone had shown them that a hometown girl can become the best in the world. 

It was an exceptionally emotional moment for Simone and the rest of us weren’t that far removed from her feelings. Many of us cried along with her. We knew full well how much courage and effort it had taken for her to reach this pinnacle. We understood how much sacrifice she and her family have made. We also knew that she was a champion for our city as well, representing the true spirit of our town. It was a stunning victory that lit up Facebook and Twitter all across the city of Houston.

Simone Manuel’s feat of daring might have been reason enough to celebrate had she been the lone winner from the Houston area but on the very same day another Simone  was also in contention for a medal. Simone Biles lives in Spring, a northern suburb of Greater Houston, with her mom and dad. She is a tiny five foot eight ball of strength and delight. Since she was a small child she has been tumbling and honing the skills of a gymnast. She demonstrated a natural talent early on but it was her fierce dedication to the sport that made her a standout. Slowly but surely she rose through the national and then the world rankings until she had become known as perhaps the greatest gymnast of all time. Yesterday she proved once and for all that she is indeed the best of the best. She easily clinched the gold to be named the best all around women’s gymnast in the world.

Just as with Simone Manuel, all of the Houston area was cheering unabashedly for Simone Biles. We marveled at her athleticism and the sheer poetry of her skills. She seems to fly higher than any of her competitors. She is a whirling dervish who is able to leap and spin and twist and turn as easily as the rest of us walk from one spot to another. She is a miracle in our midst, a tiny but mighty young woman who seemingly defies gravity and all the rules of physics. Mostly though she makes us all so very proud to be Houstonians and Americans.

Simone Biles and Simone Manuel, the two Simones, represent the very best of who we are as people. We certainly need them at this stage of history. Of late it has been all too easy to become cynical and discouraged about the future of our country. When we witness two such remarkable individuals we recall all that is so very good and important about our nation. We are reminded by them of the work ethic that makes us all great. We realize the love and support from their parents that helped them to reach the pinnacle of their endeavors. Yesterday we witnessed irrefutable evidence that the future of our city and our country is still in very good hands in little corners all across the land. We celebrate with the two Simones not only because they are indeed great but also because they have restored our faith at the very time that we may have needed it most.

Last night’s Olympic games were “must see t.v.” I can’t think of another time when I have felt so elated by a sporting event. I cried with Simone Manuel as she won and as she stood on a pedestal while the national anthem played and our flag was so proudly flew. I cried again with Simone Biles when she realized the dream of a lifetime. I cried for the happiness that spread like wildfire through my hometown. Greater Houston was on the map and bigger than ever last night as two of its most remarkable citizens showed the world what the people here are really like.

I have always maintained that Houston is perhaps the very best place to live in all of the United States. What it lacks in scenery and good weather it makes up for in its people who all in all are a grand bunch of loving and hard working individuals. We live and work together here. We are focused on our children and our neighbors. Ours is a big city with a little town feel. Now we have two heroines to make us even prouder of this crazy wonderful place we call home.   

Home

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Adoption-Home-StudyI’ve spent most of the summer away from home. I was a nanny-godmother to my godson and his brother in Boston, provided my granddaughter with a place to crash during her film camp in Austin, took a five thousand mile round trip to San Diego and back, and served as a dog sitter in San Antonio. From May until today I have only slept in my own bed for a little under three of the last nine weeks. My travels have been great fun but I almost feel like a stranger in my own house. It is amazing how many changes have occurred in the neighborhood in my absence. I have grown unaccustomed to the lights and the sounds that must surely have been there all along but which now feel so different. It seems that I will have to reacquaint myself with my surroundings before I wander off again in September. 

My father and his father were filled with wanderlust. They both moved around so much that it was often difficult to keep track of where they were. My grandfather boasted that he had lived and worked in all but a few of the contiguous states. I suspect that this explains why he doesn’t show up in a single census until he is almost fifty years old. My father had taken us on a cross country adventure just before he died. We were slated to settle down for a time but the evidence indicated that our sojourn would in all likelihood have been brief. In the eleven years that he and my mother were married they had lived in nine different houses and had traveled to dozens and dozens of states. They were on the verge of choosing home number ten when he died. Life with my daddy was definitely a moveable feast.

My mother was more settled. Her father built a home and stayed there for the totality of his adult life in this country. She selected a modest place for us after she became a widow and stayed there until we were all grown. She only moved once more when the neighborhood became a venue for rampant crime. After numerous robberies at her home she agreed that it was time to find a safer location in which to reside. She stayed in the next house long enough to pay for it in full just as her father had done with his homestead.

I am a mixture of my mom and dad. Part of me hears the siren call of adventure and the other worries that moving around too much leads to a dangerous instability, even if it is only the temporary movement of a trip. I cling to security but desire excitement. I have the urge to toss caution to the wind and follow the open road but then a sense of responsibility always pulls me back. Mostly though I think of how fortunate I am to have a home base and the means to travel when the urge overtakes me. In my journeys I have seen firsthand so many individuals without a home or a means of conveyance. They are modern day hunter gatherers moving along the streets and highways attempting to find scraps of existence from day to day and place to place. I have taught the children of such people whose situations were so dire that my heart nearly bursts even as I think of them today.

During the early years of teaching I encountered children in disturbing circumstances. One beautiful little girl lived with her family in a car. Her bed at night was the trunk. She was a pleasant child who smiled almost beatifically when expressing her gratitude that she was able to attend school each day and that she was not forced to sleep on the ground. She marveled at her parents’ ingenuity in caring for the family and boasted of the generosity of the owners of a funeral home who allowed them to park behind the business. She brought me lovely bouquets of flowers every single day from the dumpster refuse that she carefully culled. She enjoyed the free breakfast and lunch provided by the school but was still so reed thin that I suspected that her dinners were quite lacking. I often wonder what ultimately became of her. I hope that she is doing well and that she finally has a home to call her own.

Later I taught a little boy who was a handful. His behavior was akin to a wild child who had been raised by wolves. I struggled to keep his attention and wondered what made him so difficult. He eventually revealed that he and his mother were living in the garage of friends. They each had a twin mattress set on the concrete floor in between the lawn mowers and hardware that usually resides in such a place. They used a tiny propane stove to prepare meals and their hosts were kind enough to allow them to enter their home to bathe and relieve themselves. Unlike the optimistic child who had so inspired me with her homeless tale, this young man was angry at the world. At the age of nine he was already cynical and filled with hate. He wanted to find his father and beat him to a pulp for leaving them. He was embarrassed by his mother who seemed incapable of finding a job and earning the money needed to get a real place. He brought his rage into the classroom and once I realized what was fueling it I began to feel his pain. Eventually he and I achieved a separate peace as we spoke of the losses that we had both experienced. We somehow understood and respected one another. I convinced him that education would provide him with a way out of his horror. I hope that he made it and knows how much I cared.

We tend to take our homes for granted whether they be mansions in River Oaks or double wide trailers on Griggs Road, owned or rented. We have roofs over our heads at night and places to cook our food. We don’t often think about the people living under freeway overpasses or crouching behind dumpsters. We barely notice them during the day and they become almost invisible at night. Many of them are alcoholics, drug addicts or mentally ill. Some of them are simply experiencing temporary periods of bad luck.

Here in my hometown of Houston thousands of people have lost their jobs in the oil industry. Many have been searching for work for over a year. Those who have support systems to go along with their unemployment checks have hung on but their feelings of desperation intensify with each passing week. Those who have alternate skills have found part time jobs to make ends meet but just barely. Some have hit a wall and have nowhere to turn. They are one bad experience from being evicted with no place to go and no one on whom to rely. They are terrified of the future. This is how homelessness sometimes begins.

After my father died my mother reminded us every single day of how fortunate we were to have a decent and secure place to live. When the rain pounded on our roof she smiled knowing that we would be dry. Our house was small and often riddled with problems that needed repair. It was hot in the summer because there was no air conditioning but it was ours and there was little chance that we would somehow lose it.

Today I live in a comfortable suburban neighborhood in a house filled with memories of friendship and love. It is where I return again and again. It has been a source of comfort in difficult times and a retreat from the stresses of work. I don’t often appreciate it as much as I should. I sometimes forget that it is one of the great blessings of my good fortune. I must remember to be thankful when the winds are blowing and I am safe and warm. Because of the grace of God I am home.

99.9%

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test_1024x1024AT&T has been running a commercial that features a family that has suddenly lost Internet coverage. They panic, pray, spy on more fortunate neighbors whose wifi is still operating. The seconds and minutes tick by with no relief. Their lives are turned upside down. The ad suggests that if only they had invested in service from AT&T there is a 99.9% probability that this horrific dilemma would never have occurred. The moral of the sad little tale is that we must all be prepared lest we too suffer the indignities of losing our electronic contact with the world.

I always laugh a bit when I see that ad because of late I have been losing my AT&T Internet at least once almost everyday. The suspension of service never lasts more than a minute so I mostly remain calm until the signal returns. Still a fear lurks in the dark recesses of my soul that one day the interruption will last for hours or even an entire day. What would I do now that I am an electronic junkie? Where would I get my fix? Would I become as distressed as the hapless individuals in the advertisement that so amuses me?

Without warning last week I had to learn what measure of a woman I am. I was dog sitting at my daughter’s home when the unthinkable happened. The AT&T Internet went dead. I waited for a few minutes and soon began receiving messages about broadband errors, I was concerned but not totally distressed. I rebooted the system and sent a message to my daughter who was camping in Yellowstone National Park. I busied myself with other pursuits while expecting to be back in business before long. When evening fell and there was still no sign of a repair I began to actually worry but felt determined to ride out the temporary annoyance by reading and watching the local t.v. using an antenna. After all, I grew up in an era of black and white television, a single landline telephone shared by the entire family, libraries with real books, and newspapers delivered to my front yard with only slightly stale news. I understood what it was like to live the simple life without 24/7 contact with the outside world.

I retired to my dreams that night feeling rather superior. I had endured almost an entire day unplugged and it felt good to know that I had not become so spoiled and weak that I would freak out over loss of the Internet. I was not like that pathetic family in the ad.

I awoke the following morning confident that some noble repairman had taken care of the problem during my slumbers. When I realized that I was still offline a momentary panic seized me. I wondered how I would be able to post my blog. I have a hot spot on my phone but I had already received a message indicating that I had used all of my data for the period and I didn’t want to incur anymore additional payments than necessary. After a few minutes my rational side had kicked in quite nicely and I had decided that a nice trip to the local Starbucks would solve my problem.

As I drove through the neighborhood I noticed an AT&T truck parked next to a big box. A man was working away and I heaved a sigh of relief. Surely this meant that the problem would be solved. I relaxed while sipping my tea in the lovely atmosphere of Starbucks. I uploaded my blog and internally patted myself on the back for being so smart. I imagined the universe of online fun that awaited me when I returned to enjoy the once again functioning Internet system but it was not to be.

My hopes and dreams were shattered as soon as I attempted to connect my laptop and my phone to wifi upon my return to the house. The service was still as dead as a doornail. There would be no Netflix in my immediate future. I was stranded on an electronic desert and it felt abnormal. My resolve began to crumble as I finally understood that I was caught in the .1% dead zone of AT&T service. I was the statistic. Somebody had to forfeit their Internet to mathematically support their boast and I realized that I was the lucky loser.

Somehow I found ways to revert back to my old methods for doing things. I used the necessity of visiting different venues to upload my blog as a kind daily entertainment. I enjoyed the quiet of the house and found that I was far more relaxed than normal without the constant news updates that I usually receive. When there was nothing worth watching on the television I explored the area, read, and took walks. I soon established a routine devoid of devotion to social media and the noise of the constant chatter that so dominates the world. It wasn’t a disaster after all. It was actually quite nice. I reached a point when I no longer even checked to see if the service had resumed for fear that I might find it fully repaired. I kept to the slower pace that a lack of media allowed me to enjoy.

I’m back home now. My own Internet is running smoothly. I won’t have to leave to upload my blog and I have hundreds of emails to peruse that I have ignored for over a week. Somehow I am more afraid of reentering the cyber world than being without all of those distractions. I found that my days were far more productive when I wasn’t checking for updates every few minutes. I noticed the loveliness of silence. I played with the dogs and gave them my full attention. I read three books in the space of five days. I actually felt more unencumbered. I had escaped from the bondage of comments and tweets. I was no longer hypnotized by worthless offerings from the television. It was an exhilarating experience.

I’ll be the first to admit that these are the good old days with regard to the tools available to us for communication, research, writing, and entertainment. The Internet has literally revolutionized the way we think and act. I would never want to return to the limits that once defined our possibilities and yet I worry that we have not yet properly adapted to our brave new world. Instead of using the Internet for our benefit I fear that we sometimes allow it to use us. We have ironically fallen into a kind of hypnotic trance orchestrated by soundbites, popular culture, mindless and all too often incorrect information. Our newspapers have become purveyors of online slide shows and our journalists seem more concerned with “gottcha” moments than honest reporting of the news. The online world is falling all over itself playing a competitive game of outrageousness. The cyber universe has us all ginned up and the consequences have at times been disastrous.

I wonder if terrorism and hate would be as rampant without online sources keeping anger alive and well. Would our children be playing healthy outdoor games and reading more without the Internet and its constant stream of questionable entertainment? Do we really need to know things instantly? Do we even care what commentators think? Are we using the power of the Internet as effectively as we should?

The world is changing so rapidly that we rarely have enough time to adapt to the most recent ways of doing things before we are faced with even newer innovations. The pace of our inventiveness is moving faster than our reaction time. We really do need to step back from the insanity now and again. It gives us a fresh perspective as to what we really most need. It’s nice to know that our electronic world is humming 99.9% of the time but we each have the power to pull the plug whenever we wish. Sometimes it’s a good thing to tune out and tune in to what we really need.

Remains of the Days

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Mission_Concepcion_San_AntonioSan Antonio is a well known tourist destination. It attracts visitors from around the country and the world with the Riverwalk, Six Flags, Fiesta Texas, Seaworld, friendly citizens and a dedication to showing guests a good time. Virtually everyone who comes to the city takes an inspiring walk through the premier Texas shrine, the Alamo, but far too few realize that this sacred battleground was once part of a network of five missions that were built along the San Antonio River in the early eighteenth century. All of them remain standing even to this day and are easily found just south of downtown. They are a treasure that all too often goes unnoticed but one rife with history.

The missions were the work of Franciscan priests who travelled from the centers of power and commerce in Mexico to the northern reaches of the country to spread the Catholic faith and secure the land for Spain. The missions resembled Spanish villages in Europe, centering life around the church. The priests encouraged the local native people, who had traditionally been hunters and gatherers, to settle down with the offer of food and lodging. Because living off of the land was wrought with difficulties not the least of which were attacks from other tribes, many were attracted to the seeming generosity of the padres.

Of course the real intent of the priests was to convert and change the people. They considered it God’s work to baptize those who were willing to accept their religious beliefs, learn the Spanish language, and be trained to perform various jobs. Much of the labor that built the churches, buildings and walls around the missions was done by the local people whose culture quickly changed under the tutelage of the priests. They learned how to plant and grow crops. They helped to create aqueducts that directed water from the river to the village. They herded cattle and sheep and even became experts at making cloth. They became stonemasons and artisans. In fact the people of each mission were generally so self sufficient that they even had excess supplies of food that they often traded for goods from Mexico City.

Mission Concepcion is perhaps the best preserved of all of the San Antonio historical landmarks and is the closest to the present day center of downtown. Its church is much like it was back when it was an active center of daily living. Even the wall decorations are just as they were back then. The church boasts the Moorish influence seen in many Spanish edifices. It sits along an intersection of busy streets where passersby are moving so quickly that they seem not to even notice this jewel that shares its space with a seemingly forgotten neighborhood. At one time the St. John’s Seminary was next door to the mission but it was abandoned at the end of the twentieth century and is now a spooky mix of rotting buildings scarred with graffiti and neglect. Somehow the entire area is a mix of incongruous contrasts but Mission Concepcion remains gloriously beautiful in spite of the brutal passage of time.

Further down the mission road, which is actually Roosevelt Boulevard, is Mission San Jose which is a massive property that includes the official Visitor Center for all of the missions. It provides a glimpse into what the daily routine might have been for the priests, nuns, military and native people who once lived there. The remains of the wall that surrounded it as well as many of the original buildings are still intact. The church is active to this very day with priests living at the site and providing daily masses and other services for the parishioners.

Next is Mission San Juan located near a present day airport but still somewhat hidden from the view of modernity. It is a quiet place where the spirit of what happened in the long ago feels much more real. It is easy to imagine the gathering of people carrying out their routines of salvation and existence. The work must have been hard and relentless under the hot San Antonio sun. Everyone including the children had jobs to do. Sometimes there were raids on the food supplies and livestock from the Comanche who refused to join the white men who came to the land wearing strange robes and preaching of a God so unlike their own. Here there is a graveyard where many of the people were buried when they lost their lives to disease, violence and old age. It is a sacred place that lies quietly under trees that might have once shaded the very same people when they were alive.

The most rural of the missions is Mission Espada. It stands in a more remote field than any of the others. It was the farthest outpost and the only one that features bricks in its architecture. Like the other missions its purpose was to bring a measure of spiritual and political civilization to an untamed area of Mexico. The efforts were supported by both the government in Mexico and the king in Spain. As the European world colonized north and south America the Spanish government had claimed more land than any other country and missionaries were always part of the efforts to bring the Spanish culture and beliefs to the native people in what was then known as New Spain.

Texas eventually saw an influx of settlers who had come with the promise of a new start in life. When they believed that the Mexican government had reneged on those guarantees they fought for and gained independence from Mexico. The missions lost their importance and faded into history. Somehow in spite of progress all around them they remained as reminders of a forgotten time. They were saved from total destruction by the National Park Service which now serves as the protector of this amazing collection of history. 

It takes most of a day to explore all five of the San Antonio missions but it is time well spent. They provide a glimpse into an era long before there was a Texas or a United States of America. They are monuments that remind us both of our human strengths as well as our failings. Visiting them is much like going on a spiritual journey back through time. They should be at the top of the “things to see” list for anyone who chooses to travel to San Antonio.

We learn much about ourselves by studying history. Discovering how those who came before us did things reveals mankind’s mistakes and complexities. The Spanish missions were part religious, part political, part business much as most things are today. We might debate whether they helped the native people or hurt them. Perhaps it is impossible to ever really know the full ramifications of what happened so long ago. The only reality is that the missionaries came and we are lucky enough to be able to view the remains of their days in places like San Antonio. It is a gift to us to be able to glimpse the past, a destination that we all should seek.