Category: Blog

Crickets or Thunderous Applause?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

successIt’s been a little more than four years since I first began writing my blog. I spent my first year of retirement working sporadically on a book that I had wanted to write for years and somewhere along the way I hit a brick wall. I struggled to convey the emotion that I had hoped would become the heart of the story. I needed some guidance but had no idea where to turn. It was then that I noticed that the Rice University Glasscock School of Continuing Education offered a day long seminar for people like me who wanted to improve their craft and learn how to one day publish their work. I signed up immediately with Mike’s blessing even though the course was far more expensive than most of their offerings.

The class itself turned out to be frustrating on many levels. When I arrived late because I had become disoriented while attempting to follow a poorly designed campus map, all eyes turned on me with looks of undisguised irritation. I apologetically slinked into the first available seat and marveled at how many people appeared to share my dream of becoming an author. The room was packed with bestseller wannabes.

The guest speaker began her monologue much like a professor of freshman English by warning of the unlikelihood that any of us would ever live to see our words in print. She warned that the world of publishing and bookselling was changing everyday in ways that did not bode well for the fledgling author. She insisted that someone famous might create a work unworthy of lining a birdcage and hit the top of the New York Times bestseller list based solely on name recognition rather than talent, while a gifted but unknown author may never be discovered. The emphasis of the remainder of her remarks would focus on what it takes to be noticed in today’s dog eat dog market.

In an effort to relax us after frightening us, the instructor gave each attendee the opportunity to share a few words about the type of book he/she was writing. She patiently listened to person after person, providing encouragement and ideas. She laughed, smiled and applauded, noting that there were definitely going to be some winners from our obviously talented group. When it was my turn I nervously described the general outline and purpose of my memoir, expecting to feel better about my efforts once she gave me the proverbial pat on the back that she had extended to everyone else. Instead her face remained emotionless and without so much as a word she moved to the next person.

I felt like the class dunce as one after another fledgling author received the praise that had been denied me. I wondered if I was deluding myself into thinking that I had anything of worth to say. It was not until the break that I regained my composure. That’s when several of the participants approached me to admit that they would be anxiously awaiting the day when they might read my book. Each of them had personal stories of encounters with mental illness. One woman in particular confided that her twenty something son had become a recluse in her home, writing science fiction works for therapy. She had come to the class to learn how to distribute his stories to the public in the hopes of giving him a life goal. She literally began to cry as she urged me to continue with my quest to show the world how a family manages to triumph over diseases of the mind.

For the remainder of the session I learned all the reasons why it would be up to me to convince the world that I have a knack when it comes to composing with words. Our instructor suggested that one of the easiest ways to show people that our works are worth their time is to write a blog. At that moment I decided that I would try my hand at becoming an Internet journalist of sorts.

Since that fateful weekend I have arisen each weekday morning to write about this or that. I’ve watched for ideas virtually everywhere that I go. I’ve carried my laptop to campgrounds, airports, doctors’ offices, Starbuck’s, McDonald’s and all four corners of these United States. Mostly though, I’ve sat in my living room listening to sounds of the parade of humanity outside my home and I have opened up the contents of my heart for all to see. I’m not certain that I have expanded my fame as a writer but I have certainly become better at the one thing that I most enjoy doing.

In those early days of four years ago I drew on family experiences and whatever I happened to be doing at the time for my inspiration. I knew that I was hooked on the idea of being a low rent columnist when I sat in a tent one evening typing away in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. It never occurred to me that I might be struck by lightening or even electrocuted as I told the world about my angst in relying on the protection of a leaky tent whose roof was collapsing and corners were taking on water at an ominous rate. I only knew that the mere fact of describing and sharing my experience provided me with inexplicable happiness.

I’ve been at it now for so long now that I fear that I’m beginning to sound like a dotty old aunt who repeats her stories so many times that everyone in the room knows exactly what is coming next. I fear that my readers’ minds glaze over each time they see the second or third verse of what seems to be the same song. My website once hit a peak of five hundred visits each and every day. Over time my blogs were viewed over 800,000 times. Knowing that I had fans was a giddy feeling and made me believe that one day my book will be a huge success. Sadly, without warning, my readership began to slide. I modernized my page and appealed to my readers to continue to follow me but perhaps I have outlived my brief fame at just the time when I am so close to launching my book. The fear that I felt when the writing teacher showed no interest in what I was creating has returned. I wonder if I have been taking my time in completing a task that I began so long ago because I have lost my confidence in its worth. The writer’s dilemma is knowing when and where and how to share the personal thoughts that they have etched onto the virtual paper of a computer screen. It is admittedly a frightening prospect because all the world is a critic.

I am within fifty pages of completing the revisions on my book. It is both an exciting and a humbling task. After one more quick read to check for typos, spelling mistakes and punctuation errors I will be ready to format my work. I need to design a cover and insert photos, something that I have no idea how to do but will somehow learn. Then my memoir will debut. It’s so close that I can feel it and I’m quite nervous. My greatest fear is that once it is available the public response will be just like that of the writing guru who so quickly dismissed the worth of my idea four years ago. That would be devastating. I sometimes wonder if my efforts will be greeted with crickets or thunderous applause. The only way to find out will be to finally complete the task.

There Is Room At Our Inn

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

f41a8570f98033234e38d8be706b27c6Close your eyes and try to imagine life as you have always known it turned upside down. Your country is engaged in a civil war. The leader of your nation is a dictatorial tyrant. The members of the opposing factions are revolutionaries. You just want peace and to be left alone but that is impossible. The differing sides fight one another year after year. The beautiful city where you live has been reduced to rubble. You exist in a kind of ghost town because most of your friends and neighbors have already fled the destruction. Your children have no school to attend, no playmates, no security. They roam through piles of rubble and entertain themselves by exploring abandoned homes and buildings. Food and basic necessities are scarce. Your life has turned into a living hell. Your home is no longer a refuge. You reluctantly realize that the only option for you and your family is to leave the place that you love.

Giving up is not an easy decision to make. You are departing from a lifetime of memories and possessions. You carry only a change of clothes and perhaps a few precious mementos from the life you have known. As you exit you look back at your tiny corner of the world, perhaps for the very last time. You have no way of knowing what lies ahead. You have taken a forced leap of faith. Your heart is broken. You tell yourself that property and things are unimportant and that it is in the people that your true joy lies. As long as you are with your loved ones, you believe that you will ultimately be okay. Somehow you know that reality is never as simple as that, but you do what you must do. You embark on a journey into the great unknown. You begin again and hope for the best.

This morning as we enjoy the comfort of our own lives there are refugees from Syria and other troubled nations fleeing from war and persecution. They may look different from us and speak in tongues that we can’t understand but if we were able to talk with them we would learn that they are very much like us. They would rather be enjoying the routines that defined their days before political, religious and tribal fighting upended all that they had ever known. Their children are like our children, wanting to play and laugh. They are innocents caught up in forces over which they have no control. All that they desire is to keep themselves and their children safe but the world can at times be so cruel.

Most of these people now live in deplorable conditions in tent cities swarming with rats and infectious diseases. They await permission to travel to distant places where many of the citizens deplore their very presence. They are viewed with disdain by strangers who fear them. They are seen in the abstract, as nameless masses rather than the individuals that they are. Sometimes their situations become so painful that they take desperate risks to find a semblance of sanity. They never chose to be in this position. It was thrust upon them through no fault of their own and yet they are reviled by so many.

Throughout the history of the world there have been people reduced to becoming nomads because of the heartless decisions of those in power. The Israelites were enslaved by the Egyptians and later roamed in the wilderness in search of a home. Humans have been sold as slaves by warring tribes. My own grandparents lived in poverty and hopelessness in the Austro-Hungarian empire. Their entire way of life was threatened with extinction by a government that refused to even allow them to speak their own language. They left for the opportunities and promise in the United States, a place that did not always welcome them. They persisted but their early years were filled with challenges and ignorant prejudice.

My sister-in-law and her family had to flee their homeland of China when she was just a small girl. They left wearing layers of clothing and heavy coats with valuables sewn inside the lining. Their journey was treacherous and filled with uncertainty. Like today’s refugees they were forced to leave a world that they loved for one that they knew little about. They left behind people who had been important to them, whom they might never again see. Their move was traumatic but necessary. Had they stayed they may have been imprisoned or punished by being reduced to a state of poverty. They had no recourse but to leave and to hope that they would find a new home where they might be content.

After the fall of South Vietnam many of those who had sympathized with the losing side also had to escape. They found sponsors and homes all across the United States. I taught some of them. They proved to be fine people, outstanding citizens. They adapted and learned and worked just like my grandparents and my sister-in-law did. They enriched the American landscape.

There are many reasons why the flood of refugees from the Middle East may frighten Americans. We have witnessed terrorist attacks and we worry that jihadis may be hiding in the ranks of the ragtag people seeking asylum. Losing even one life because of a cavalier and unchecked sympathy for the masses seems to be too high a price to pay and yet our common sense tells us that the likelihood of ordinary families aspiring to become murderers is slim. We have to ask ourselves if we can possibly be so cold as to turn our backs on people who are suffering so much. Each of us no doubt has a story of an ancestor who sought out our country to escape from some form of persecution. Even the British branch of my genealogy points to individuals bound to lives of servitude in England who preferred the freedoms of the new world. It is in all of our natures to want to find liberty from tyranny.

I understand that the world is overwhelmed by the problems in the Middle East. I realize that there are truly evil people who hate us and wish us dead. I know that our resources are limited and we can’t possibly solve every problem in the world. Still, I look at children living in hopelessness and squalor and I wonder why we can’t be more open to offering them a way out of their misery. In the end we all want the best for our kids no matter who we are. We take a risk every single day that our goodness will be thrown back in our faces. There is no guarantee that we are not already breeding monsters who will one day do us harm. An ugly aspect of the human experience is that there are horrifically deranged people in every culture, every part of the world. It is neither more nor less likely that we will find such sorts within the people that we choose to help. It is simply a reality of life that those intent on destruction will find a way in spite of our best efforts. We needn’t punish an entire group base on an isolated fear. It has generally been an American tradition to open our hearts and risk being hurt from one for the good of the many.

We may be protected by the oceans on the two sides of our country but we are not isolated from the rest of the world. Their problems ultimately become ours and hiding our heads in the sand has never worked out well. Our finest moments as a nation have been when we opened our arms to welcome the newest immigrants and refugees. Most of us would not even be here if earlier generations has turned our ancestors away. We are a land of many colors, multiple ethnicities, different cultures. All of us blended together are what America is all about. I think that we do indeed have room for more.

Those of us who are Christians are all too familiar with the story of Jesus and His family. He was born in a stable because his parents were traveling to fulfill the demands of the census. The roads and the byways were crowded and there was no room for them at the inn. Let us not be guilty of turning away those who need our help. Let us find room at our inn.

A Man of Conviction

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

13217425_10154872781052942_8943469239859733222_o-2During my years as an educator I encountered so many young people. They kept me going in a profession that is not always kind. Whenever things became especially challenging my students reminded me why I had chosen a career so fraught with frustrations. There have been so many souls who sat in front of me, some of them seemingly lost and others filled with promise. Over the years there were certain individuals who stood out from their peers. They possessed certain qualities of intellect and determination that convinced me that they were destined for success. One of those people was Shaun Wilkins.

My instincts told me as soon as I met Shaun that he was an extraordinary young man. He possessed a look in his eyes that spoke of his intelligence and unyielding curiosity. He was a reflective soul who was unwilling to simply accept pronouncements on face value. Shaun demanded to know the truth, for he was a natural born critical thinker. I also noted that Shaun Wilkins was driven by an unwavering sense of justice as well as a strong faith in God that tempered the way he viewed the world. He was never content to simply walk away from situations that he believed were unfair. He was instead inclined to want to affect positive change in the world and to fight for what he thought to be right.

Shaun graduated from KIPP Houston High School in 2010. He was headed for Tufts University in Boston and filled with a sense of great excitement. I was not at all surprised that he had been accepted to such a prestigious school. It seemed a perfect fit for his interests and outstanding academic background but the good Lord had other plans in mind for him. During his freshman year events unfolded that required him to return to Houston to help with his family.

Shaun never complained about his fate. Instead he shouldered his responsibilities like the man that he is. He found a job and did what he knew that he must do. He reassessed his options and once his world calmed down enough he entered Wiley College in Marshall, Texas, an historically Black private school dating all the way back to the nineteenth century.

Once he had resumed his education there was no holding him back. With the support of his family, the grace of God and his own resolve, Shaun Wilkins graduated this past Saturday with a degree in Sociology. Photos of the event that he posted on Facebook show his profound happiness. I so wish that I had been there to celebrate with him. I make it a point to attend the commencement exercises of my former students whenever they invite me and Shaun had requested the presence of many of us who had been part of his academic journey. Unfortunately three prior commitments prevented me from being present to watch Shaun triumphantly walk across the stage. Nonetheless my thoughts and my love were with him all day long. I know how hard he worked to achieve his goal and how earnest he has always been in wanting to understand how our society works and how he might help to make the changes needed to make our world a more peaceful and just place in which to live.

I have little doubt that Shaun Wilkins will be a positive force in our midst. Shaun has not been shy about sharing the credit for his accomplishments with his beloved family He fully understands how much they have sacrificed to always support him in his efforts. He is also vocal about his gratitude to God who stood by him even when his road seemed dark and lonely. He has not forgotten the teachers, the friends and the many people who walked with him if only for a brief time as he triumphed over the obstacles that seemed to incessantly block his path. We all watched him overcome the odds so that he might show the world that he is indeed the gifted man that I always thought him to be. Shaun’s own words speak volumes. “I have always been proud of my heritage; but to become a black man with a degree in a world that says we’re less than is an honor all its own. I take none of this for granted and none of it for myself. I give all honor to God because if it were all on me, I would have been down and out 4 years ago. I’m thankful my limits as a man are not His.”

The speaker at Shaun’s ceremony told the graduates that they have the power to achieve their goals. “You don’t have to wait for your ship to come in. You can build your own ship.” These are fitting words for a young man who has never let any setback hold him down. Shaun is ready to sail away into adventure.

My heart is filled with joy for Shaun Wilkins. He has demonstrated that life is about persistence, flexibility and a willingness to make the best of disappointments. He is more than ready to assume his place in the world, and I will continue to watch his progress with great anticipation for it will no doubt be glorious. Congratulations, Shaun. This is only the beginning. I can’t wait to see your story unfold.

Watch and Learn

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

HappyFamilies_1920x856_article_image My mother used to instruct me to “watch and learn.” I took her words to heart and began observing people from the time that I was quite young. Sometimes I became so intensely involved in this endeavor that my mom would caution me not to stare. Others noted that I sometimes appeared to be in a kind of trance as I gazed at the passing parade around me and took mental notes inside my head. My tendency to be always alert to the actions and feelings of people has served me well. I have indeed learned much simply by carefully contemplating the images before me as I explore the world. It is a habit that both entertains and informs me.

I have learned over more than six decades that as people we are all generally the same. When it comes to our families, our longings, our needs it matters little what superficial external qualities identify us. Instead our true natures lie within. We are all made of cells, organs, blood, muscles, bones but our thoughts are what make us unique individuals. There are more aspects of our humanity that unite us than divide us. Underneath the color of our skin and eyes and hair is an innate desire to to love and care for one another. We somehow understand even from the youngest age that we cannot survive alone.

We all require the loving touch and concern that almost always begins with a parent. There are of course many different ways that families are formed and not all of them are healthy, but in the main our mothers love us from the very moment that we are conceived. They excitedly plan for our arrival and decide how we shall be named. They nourish us and follow all of the necessary guidelines to insure our health. They may talk to us or sing when they feel us kicking. We grow inside the comfort of their wombs until we are ready to enter the world. For many reasons we do not always have both a mother and a father and there are even occasions when our natural parents choose not to raise us. If we are very lucky we find ourselves in homes where we will be cherished and encouraged to grow into the adults that we were meant to be. Our families provide us with the safety, security and experiences that help us to flourish. We in turn may eventually become parents or caretakers of children and we unconsciously apply the lessons that we have learned from our own childhoods to the process of building new generations of strong and caring individuals.

While I have seen grave evil up close and personal as I have studied the passing parade of life, I have also noted that we humans are mostly good. This was confirmed for me once again at three different events that I attended this weekend. The first was an end of year band concert featuring sixth graders who had just completed their first year of musical training. There was an air of unmitigated joy in the atmosphere from the moment that I drove into the parking area where parents and their youngsters were excitedly making their way to the school cafeteria where the venue was held. Everyone was dressed in celebratory fashion and many people carried cameras to record the moment for posterity. There was an abundance of smiles and laughter lighting up the festivities. The love and pride that the audience felt for the young performers was palatable. I felt a sense of great comfort in knowing that family ties remain one of the most important forces in our society.

I saw a young mother wearing a uniform of the United States Army. She was beaming as she listened to the symphonic sounds of the band. I noted parents of many ethnicities who were all spellbound by the unifying force of feelings that make all of the hard work of parenting seem insignificant. It gave me a sense of great hope to know that the world is still a wonderful place where our babies enjoy so much love.

The following day I went to an Astros baseball game because my twin grandsons were going to perform the national anthem with their school band. Once again I was struck by the number of parents and grandparents who had come just to encourage their kids. The area where we sat was a joyful place, not just because the Astros actually won the game, but mostly because the families were so supportive of one another. Again there were cameras capturing the beautiful sounds of the young musicians and big smiles of pride lighting up all of the faces.

Yesterday on Mother’s Day I saw an effusive outpouring of love for the mamas. Everywhere I went and everything that I did convinced me how much we universally treasure our moms. There were so many visitors at the cemetery that it was as congested as the freeway on a workday morning. Entire families were meeting and placing flowers and balloons on the grave sites of mothers and grandmothers. While these were somber reminders of the impact that our mamas have on us even after they are gone, they said something about just how much we love the women who care for us when we are not able to do so ourselves. It also tells me that our society has not yet gone to rot as so many seem to believe. Our family values are still quite strong.

The makeup of familial groups may appear different from the traditional ways of old but the bonds are as unbreakable as ever. We understand that the people who devote themselves to our upbringing are the ones who contribute mightily to making us who we are. Each hug, assist, lesson, sacrifice, encouragement and bit of wisdom molds us and stays with us for all time. We remember the one who brings us medicine in the dark of night. We will never forget the person who consoled us when we thought we had utterly failed. We have an entire library of memories of our parents and the many times that they gave up their own pleasures so that we might have ours. So often the real best friend and angel that we will ever know is our mother.

Being a mother is very hard work. It’s filled with worries and fears of making terrible mistakes. It requires long hours and uncomfortable moments. Mostly though it is the most rewarding pursuit on this earth. When we raise up our children to the point where we watch them fly away, our momentary feeling of sadness is instantly replaced with the knowledge that we have done something very important. We have given them roots to keep them steady and wings to set them free.

In spite of the headlines that seem to predict the end of life as we know it, the reality is that the vast majority of the world is filled with good and wonderful people. I have watched and what I have learned is that our future is bright. It lies in the millions upon millions who still believe in our children. As long as such people are around things will ultimately turn out to be just fine.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

teacher-apple-clipart-KijzBd5iqI would be remiss if I were to finish this week without acknowledging the many teachers who devote their time and talents each day to educating the adults of the future. Teachers have impacted my life from the time in first grade when Sister Camilla saw that I was a frightened and confused child. She took me under her wing and taught me how to read with love and genuine concern for my well being. Along the way I had a host of wonderful people who nurtured me and developed my interests. Mrs. Powers, Mrs. Loisey, Mrs. Colby, Mrs. Getz, Sister Wanda, Father Shane, Father Bernard, Mr. Maroney and Father Hilarion were among those who created a love for learning in me and left a lasting impression on my soul. I remember their lessons and the joy that I felt in their classes. So much of the person that I am today was carefully molded with their care.

As a mother I worried about the schooling of my own children. There were wonderful souls who shepherded them just as I had been. I needn’t have had any anxieties because my girls were given an excellent knowledge base from which they ultimately built their careers. As a family we all loved Mr. Beeson, Mr. Montgomery, Mrs. Wilson, Dr. Warner, Mrs. Pirtle, Mrs. Weston, Mrs. Stringer and Mrs. Thompson. I watched my girls bloom and grow at Jessup Elementary, South Houston Intermediate and South Houston High School. Their teachers were dedicated to making them strong writers, curious scientists and competent mathematicians. I rarely had anything but deep respect for each and every one of the educators who helped them to grow and mature.

Eventually I too became a teacher, spending the bulk of my adult life working with pre-schoolers, fourth graders, middle schoolers, and finally high school students. I loved every single minute of that experience and carry fond memories of my kids and their willingness to put up with me even on days when I had somehow lost my groove. It was hard work, but always rewarding. I made far less money than I might have in another occupation but it is doubtful that I would ever have felt as important to the grand scheme of the universe doing anything else. I always felt humbled and grateful to be allowed to work in perhaps the most influential profession that there is. For most of my teaching time I was a rather isolated soul. My days were spent inside a classroom over which I had domain. Both successes and failures were all on me. Sometimes it was a lonely existence. I often beat myself up, thinking that I could have or should have done better. I imagined that my colleagues were immune from the doubts that so haunted me. I sometimes became discouraged. When it became the vogue to create teams of teachers who met regularly I finally realized that most of the frustrations that I had experienced were shared by the others as well. We helped one another and in the process everyone was all the better.

Eventually I became a Peer Facilitator and then a Dean of Faculty. I missed the students but I greatly enjoyed watching the teachers as they worked to instill knowledge, skills, and thinking capabilities in their charges. I had never realized how many remarkable things were happening inside all those classrooms. I was supposed to be helping the educators but I found that every single time that I witnessed a lesson it was I who walked away with new ideas and information. I realized firsthand the extent to which teachers literally put their hearts, their souls and their passion into what they do. They worried incessantly about the extent to which they were making a positive difference with their pupils. They hungered to improve and to reach closer and closer approximations of perfection.

If all citizens were to witness the level of dedication that I saw they would end their negative critiques of schools. They would understand just how much the teachers care. It was rare for me to see someone who was lazy or who only worked for a pay check. That certainly happened here and there but for the most part teaching literally consumed the lives of the people with whom I worked. Not even the summer brought them total freedom from thinking about their jobs. Most of them enrolled in classes, taught children in need of remediation or created ever more exciting lessons for the next school year. Even on vacations they were constantly searching for new resources and ideas.

If you’ve ever been in a social setting with teachers you will have realized the intensity with which their students dominate their thinking. They literally focus entire conversations on speaking of ways to improve their craft. They are obsessive in their search for the best practices. Teachers think of their students when they first awake in the morning and as they are closing their eyes at night. Always it is with a sense of love and concern that they worry about whether or not they are doing everything possible.

I can’t name all of the wonderful teachers with whom I have worked. The list would be far too long. All I can do is remind them that they know who they are. We have walked together, cried together and laughed together. We have wished with all our being to be able to reach every student who sits before us. We have experienced days when we have been so weary that we wondered if we were going to be able to continue in this incredibly difficult career. Mostly though we have celebrated one tiny victory at a time. We have enjoyed those very precious moments when our efforts have brought a smile to a young person’s face. We have reveled in meeting our former students years after they have left us and seeing what successful human beings they have become.

Many argue over what the most important professions are. We certainly need our doctors and there are times when we would be lost without a lawyer. Our engineers create remarkable things and business persons keep our economic world running smoothly. When our cars break down we need a mechanic right away. So too is a plumber the person we wish to see most when our faucet springs a leak. Virtually none of these professions would be possible without teachers. Everyone who has a successful life has a number of teachers to thank.

This is Teacher Appreciation Week. I have a cousin who has showered her daughter’s teacher with adorable gifts all week long. I suspect that the lucky recipient is feeling quite loved. If you haven’t yet let one of your teachers or one of your children’s teachers know how thankful you are for the work that they do, it is not too late. I can attest to the fact that a quick email,a handwritten note or a sweet card will be treasured forevermore. Every teacher has a box of such trinkets and they mean the world. Take the time to thank your teachers. They need to hear the positive things that you have to say. Give them the gift of knowing that they have indeed made a very important difference.