Category: Commentary

I can’t remember ever having a cup of hot tea when I was growing up. My beverage drinking experiences mostly centered on drinking water or milk, but not with meals. Somewhere along the way my mother heard or read that digestion of food was better served without sipping on some kind of liquid while eating. She encouraged us to drink either before or after the meal, not while we were in the process of consuming it. 

The adults in my family were coffee drinkers. My mother launched each day with an unadulterated cup of brew. She eschewed cream and sugar and never had any interest in adding flavors to the dark liquid that seemed to jumpstart her brain each morning. As a child I learned to stay out of her way until the magic of a cup of coffee eventually jolted her awake and returned her to her generally pleasant disposition. Before that moment it was best not to provoke her ire. 

My maternal grandmother famously brewed her coffee in a large enamel pot. Her concoction would never have been chosen as a contender for the delight of true coffee aficionados, but it seemed adequate for those needing a small dose of caffeine. I am told by those who love coffee that it was little more than hot water with a tiny dash of coffee. They called it weak, but I called it my grandmother’s attempt to be gracious and hospitable to anyone who came to visit, including her grandchildren. She never failed to bring us enamel cups filled with more sugar and milk than coffee within minutes of our arrival at her home. To this day I can see her proudly distributing the love that her concoction always signified to me. 

I never developed a love of coffee like most people have. Somehow I was never able to acquire a taste for it even though I like its aroma. My mother-in-law would introduce me to the drink that really stirred my passion. After Sunday dinners when the men left us to watch whatever sport happened to be on television my mother-in-law always made a pot of hot tea that the two of us enjoyed while we talked about family, books, and philosophy. 

My mother-in-law’s family had immigrated to the United States from Newcastle, England just before the outbreak of World War I. She had a grandmother who danced a jig and a mother who taught her how to brew a pot and share a cuppa the very British way. She would use a kettle to boil the water and then warm the pot before placing the tea inside and pouring the water into the container. She new exactly how long to allow the tea to steep in the hot water until the perfect chemical reaction had taken place. I absolutely delighted in sharing that lovely ritual with her. 

Before long it was well known that I loved tea of any kind, but that my favorites were Earl Grey and English Breakfast. Nonetheless, I tried many different varieties and learned that there were few that did not please me. I began to collect tea pots and tins of different blends. I’d launch my day with a cup of tae and imbibe again in the afternoon when my energy began to flag. I delighted in the ritual of making tea and often laughed when I learned that my mother-in-law’s very English mother had always use Lipton tea bags to make her own brew. 

Both my grandmother and my mother-in-law were delightful hostesses. The coffee from Grandma and the tea from Mary Isabel defined their graciousness and generosity. I suppose that the symbolism of sharing time with a warm cup of brew meant more to me than what was actually inside my grandmother’s enamel cups and my mother-in-law’s fine china. The time shared whether wordlessly or with dynamic discussion was priceless. 

After joining Ancestry I learned more and more about my dual background. I’m almost perfectly half Eastern European and half British Isles. I’d like to think that my love of tea is a natural evolution from one side of my ancestors. It took my mother-in-law to introduce me to a tradition that must surely have been a staple in the homes of my long ago relations who came to the colonies before the United States was even an idea. 

I introduced my grandchildren to tea time when they were rather small. Some of them really enjoyed both the tradition and the taste of the brew. Others navigated toward coffee which seemed to provide them with a bigger punch of caffeine for awakening to another day of studying. Only one grandson seems to still enjoy taking the time to let the tea steep in the pot while we talk about the world. He still plans to one day take whomever ends up being his wife to the high tea time at the Empress Hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, a delightful experience that we enjoyed together on a vacation trip of long ago. 

It is quite remarkable how much impact two different kinds of brew have had on the history of the world. The stories of coffee and tea are more than just the way we start our days. They changed the world in both big and quite personal ways. For me they both represent love and in the case of tea, discovery. I can’t drink either one without thinking of the two remarkable women who gave me my first tastes of the drinks that would awaken my feelings in such positive ways.  

The word entitlement can mean different things depending on how we think about that word. For some an entitlement is a belief that there are certain moral aspects of life for which every human has a claim. Among such entitlements are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It might also be argued that equal opportunity and justice are also natural entitlements. Some people see the word entitlement as an expectation, a of feeling of being owed something without merit. Philosophers have grappled with the distribution of rights from the beginning of time. 

One idea is utilitarian. It suggest that rights should be distributed in a manner that provides the greatest good to the greatest number of individuals. Another concept is unbiased capitalism which presumes that what people need will naturally trickle down to them if simply left to the ingenuity and hard wokd of humankind. A more recent study of justice insists that innate biases tend to insure that some people are perennially left out. It suggests that since everyone is entitled to certain concepts of moral fairness we must often be ready to engineer a process that takes into account those least likely to achieve that same goals as everyone else due to circumstances beyond their control. 

Imagine a race for justice in which the wealthiest and most influential among us are given a head start of several laps. There might be some souls with incredible natural talents who have a chance catch up with them through great effort, but it is unlikely that they would do more than come close. Then consider someone with physical handicaps struggling to keep apace and others who were not even aware that justice was only available by placing in a race. An individual’s circumstances due to lack of money or influence or physical acuity make them less and less likely to arrive at the finish line while the “goodies’ are still available, the level of justice that they would earn would be dangerously low even if it existed at all. A better way of doing things would be to insure that even the most downtrodden among finds a reserve of justice waiting for them when their circumstances impede their ability to run for their lives. 

Entitlement is a basic right, not an attitude. We may be created equal but the truth is that where, when and into which family we are born will be a great determining factor in how well we enjoy that equality.

I began my life in a democratic republic with intelligent and loving parents who provided well for me. I inherited their genetic abilities to learn easily and their good health that provided the energy that I needed to grow and prosper in the world. When my father died some of my advantage crumbled. Money was no longer as abundant in propelling me forward to my future. My family’s needs sometimes overwhelmed my own hard work. It was as though I had lost momentum in the race of life with a major stumble that pushed me farther and farther behind. Still, simply by nature of my good fortune of being in the right place at the right time I have been able to live a mostly decent life. I have enjoyed enough access to human entitlements to feel that life has been fair for me even if making it so took more effort on my part. 

As a teacher I encountered young people whose circumstances were so dire that it was difficult to watch their struggles. It sometimes felt as though an invisible hand was blocking them from even moving from the starting line. They were born with innumerable handicaps that would make their own races seem painfully hopeless. One aspect of justice for them involved providing them with education and sometimes the only meals they would eat each day. I watched some of them grow stronger and more and more able to continue in the race, but there were others who were so bombarded with difficulties that I worried that they might never move from the challenges that held them back. 

We might be inclined to believe that every person has an equal chance of reaching the finish line in a wealthy country like our own but we all know that even here there is a certain level of unfairness that awards the wealthiest and most mentally and physically fit before those who lack such advantages. Sometimes even ignorance of how things work can impede people for all of their lives, leaving them wondering why they work so hard but never seem to get ahead. Society is complex and regardless of how free and it is and how many opportunities there are a stratification of influence tends to insure that some people get all that they need and others are left struggling to survive. Unless we work to insure that everyone has what we all should be entitled to have, our system still has room to improve. 

There are no utopian places anywhere on this earth. Some are particularly horrific and others do their best to fairly distribute the rights of humans. It is still a work in progress. We know that taking away incentives by simply distributing things equally has never worked just as relying on democracy alone to take all people into account can leave much suffering. There are times when we know that we have to provide for people who are unable to provide for themselves for whatever reason. We should each be willing to contribute in ways proportionate to our wealth, influence and natural abilities. Nobody should be so far ahead that the race is rigged in their favor. At the same time nobody should be so far back that they have no chance to win. We know what is fair and what is not. If we cooperate in distributing the universal entitlements that we all should have we can still have room for a fair competition in which some get the prize but everyone feels that they have won. We are all entitled to life, liberty, happiness, and a fair shot at enjoying those things. 

I am a woman and I often contemplate what that has meant. I also wonder what it is truly like being a man. I grew up in a time when baby girls wore pink and boys wore blue. Because I had no hair until I was almost two years old strangers would ask my mother if I was a boy in spite of the frilly outfits that I wore. I suppose that in the minds of those who saw me I was supposed to have a head of delightful curls in order to be deemed a proper female. It seems that I was stereotyped from the beginning of my life much as all of us are. We endure biases both subtle and blatant during our lives. Mostly we learn to live with them even as they sometimes bother us. 

I was a skinny little girl with baby fine hair that tended to do whatever it chose to do rather than obeying the laws of style. The words that I heard most from the people who described me were “cute” and “smart.” In the nineteen fifties and sixties these were not exactly the kind of phrases that felt complimentary in the world of being female. I’d hear my cousin being referred to as pretty or beautiful, which she was, and feel somehow inadequate in the expectations of the world’s view of women that seemed so prevalent. I became a bit shy and uncertain about my worth when I gazed at my own mother who was gorgeous along with her intelligence. Nonetheless, my parents seemed to love me just as I was and they did their best to make me feel special. 

My confidence struggled to unfold as a late bloomer. Just as it took my hair longer than usual to grow as an infant, it seemed that everything about my physical development was slow in progressing. I looked like a ten year old when my female peers were developing into young women. Because so much societal influence taught me that beauty and appearance mattered I became shy and self critical. There was only one trait that kept me feeling good about myself. I was a quick learner, a rock star student who concentrated on making the most of the hand that nature had dealt me. Still, I sometimes got the idea that society was unimpressed with intellectual women. Even my own male cousins referred to me as the “smart one” and my lovely cousin as the “pretty one.” Such a reminder seemed to diminish my worth but I only laughed when I heard such things. I feigned a blasé attitude to shield myself. 

A great deal has happened in the world to change attitudes about women, even within my family. A conversation with my beautiful cousin taught me that she was just as dismayed by being categorized only by her appearance as I had been. She proved to be an incredibly talented and intelligent woman but all too often the world focused mainly on her face and her hair just as it had looked at me through a lens of stereotyping. We both laughed at the thought that a woman’s worth is all too often measured with antiquated ideas. We realized that each of us in our own ways was both pretty and smart. We wondered why our male counterparts had not been judged by similar standards but then realized that even they had to overcome stereotypes about strength and athleticism and other attributes thought to be the domain of men. 

Women are so much in the news these days. Their childbearing capabilities or difficulties have become political fodder. Men are audaciously voicing opinions on how women should serve the world by having families. There is a toxic atmosphere in which disagreements involving women sometimes devolve into name calling that refers to estimations of their appearance rather than the merit of their ideas. It is a kind of regression that worries me, not so much for myself as for my granddaughter and other young women just beginning their lives in the adult world. It reminds me of the painful estimations of both me and my cousin who were judged according to a misleading set of standards that did not take into account the totality of who each of us were. It is the kind of boorish stereotyping that should have been relegated to the past. 

There are now more women in colleges than men. Women have proven to be excellent in virtually every type of work. We have learned to value the beauty of an individual without a rubric of standards. When we begin to see people as they are we understand that every person is lovely and worthy of our admiration. There is no one standard for judging, and in fact there should be no judging. We are unique and wonderful with or without good hair or a beautiful face . There are many forms of intelligence as well that go far beyond book learning. Our goal should be to look beyond the prejudices that have too often created barriers for women. 

I have become comfortable in my own skin. I know who I am and I really like myself. It took awhile for me to ignore the meanness that is sometimes hurled at women. I align myself with people who have eschewed superficialities. I most enjoy people who are willing to embrace me as I am. Women are so much more than we have traditionally given them credit for being, just as we have learned that there really should never be something called a typical man. Girls don’t have to wear pink and boys don’t have to wear blue. We simply have to love ourselves as we are. As the saying goes, “God does not make junk.” If we truly believe that then we will begin to see the radiance of every person we encounter and we will love and support them just as they are. 

When we were much younger my husband Mike and I used to joke that one day we might be in a nursing home “dancing” to songs from the Rolling Stones in our wheelchairs. We’d laugh hysterically at the very thought as ridiculous as it sounded. Last Sunday we found ourselves at a Rolling Stones concert for the third time. The Hackney Diamonds tour debuted in Houston and we were fortunate enough to have tickets to see the incredible group. Still, our adventure made us laugh as we made our way into the NRG Stadium weaving through a crowd of all ages that included many folks with canes, walkers and wheelchairs. The gray hair and inability to walk without an aid was not going to stop them from gathering to enjoy a night with the Stones.

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards may be in their eighties but they still know how to rock and put on a fabulous show. They put the lie to the idea that age automatically makes someone too old to keep working. Beginning the set with Start Me Up it quickly became apparent that Mick is as spry and charismatic as ever and the musicianship of Keith and Ronny and the rest of the ensemble is world class. While some of the younger folk in the audience danced the night away the older folks sang along with song after song remembering their youth and forgetting any aches and pains they may have had. 

Mike and I felt as though we were back in high school when he was seventeen and I was sixteen and we first heard Satisfaction on the radio. I remember going to Gulfgate Mall with my friend Claudia and purchasing that record for around a dollar. I took it home and put it on repeat play on our RCA Victrola. My mother enjoyed it as much as I did and she and I danced in our living room while it played over and over again. Later I bought Paint It Black and once again listened to it probably a hundred times, never growing tired of it. 

When I took a debate class at school someone came up with the idea of staging a persuasive competition between those who preferred the Beatles and those who leaned toward the Stones. I was totally in love with John Lennon and the Fab Four but I had to admit that when it came to the music I was equally enchanted with Mick and crew. I basically called the debate a tie but I remember the Rolling Stones side arguing that long after the Beatles were gone the Stones would still be rocking together and on Sunday night that prediction seemed to be true. 

Our concert had all of the best songs including classics like Sympathy for the Devil and Gimme Shelter which may well be the best rock song of all time. I have often dreamed of joining the band on stage and singing with Mick. To a certain extent I did that last Sunday. While Mike recorded song after song on his phone I sang as though I was a member of the band. If you listen carefully to Mike’s recording you will hear me harmonizing with Mick in perfect key. 

We bought our merch of course to add to our collection of Rolling Stones t-shirts and kept the guitar shaped fans distributed by AARP, the sponsor of the concert. That fact really made us laugh. There was nothing retiring about either the crowd or the guys in the band. When Mick got on his knees during on of the songs Mike and I were both impressed with how easily he got right back up without even using his hands. In fact they all performed for a solid two hours without seeming to even break into a sweat. 

I know what it is like to be under the lights on a stage and even in my younger years I used to get quite warm and out of breath. Not so for the octogenarians who kept pace with the singing and dancing and playing of instruments as though they were still in their twenties. They got as many screams from the crowd as they had when they were young studs sporting long hair and smooth faces. Like fine wine they have aged to be even better.

The Rolling Stones inspired me to remember that the party of life is not over until it’s over. I may be older but I still have much to offer long as my mind keeps working. I’ll be meeting up with the guys on the treadmill and when I’m racing on my exercise bike. I’ll bring them along on my walks around the neighborhood. I’ll think of all the fun and pleasure that they have given me over the years and I will smile. I’ll remember that old high school debate and laugh that they are still rolling along after all these years.   

My best days are the ones on which i use my mind to learn new things. I suppose I’ve always been a student. I feel alive when I am walking on the campus of a university and contemplating all of the knowledge that is part and parcel of such places. I become a slug overcome with a case of the blues whenever I do not take the time to develop my brain. The days on which I teach and tutor students in mathematics are among my most joyful. The mornings when I rise early to write my blogs and read are the most satisfying. I am uplifted each time I attend a lecture at the Glasscock School of Continuing Education at Rice University. 

I recently enjoyed what I would define as a perfect day. I arose with the sun much as I usually do and spent some time reading in the hopes of finding a topic to consider for one of my blogs. To my great delight an article started a kind of stream of consciousness inside my head that led to connecting those thoughts to words and ideas that I quickly typed on a blank white screen until a theme for the day had developed. I never quite know which of my little essays will please those who read them. I simply pour out my heart and hope that in the process I might delight someone else. Even if nobody ever reads what I have created, the art of stringing together words into coherent ideas is a most joyful experience for me. 

On the particular day that felt so wonderful I followed up my writing by listening to an online lecture from Michael Sandel, a professor at Harvard University. It was part of readying myself for the philosophy class that I am taking this semester. The topic was justice, in particular a study of John Rawls’s Theory of Justice, something that has always been of great interest to me. If I had not been a teacher or if I had never decided to write I believe that I would have enjoyed being a lawyer or an advocate for those with limited resources. The question of justice is a topic that courses through my thoughts almost continuously and the lecture stirred my soul in ways that produced the happiness of discovery that has always been like a drug to me. 

Not only was I inspired by the clarity of Michael Sandel’s explanation of Rawl’s theories about justice but I enjoyed seeing the earnest faces of the students in his class and hearing the variety of their responses to the questions that he used to challenge them to think critically. When I realized that the video was only one of an entire series on what is right and how justice should be viewed I immediately watched another offering, using the entire morning engaged in thought. 

Soon duty called and I knew that I had to review the processes of solving rational equations to help a young student whom I have tutored for years. I first met him as a little boy who was confused and uncertain about his mathematical abilities. Now he is a junior in high school navigating quite successfully through Algebra II and looking forward to Pre-Calculus next school year. He is one of my all time favorite students with his shock of ginger hair and ready smile. Mostly I am overjoyed to see how mature and self assured he has become. He might be the poster boy for hopefulness for our future. 

My day went by so swiftly while I was engaged in academic pursuits but the best was yet to come. I had registered myself and my husband, Mike, for a special event at Rice University, a lecture from Dr. Peter Hotez, a world renowned virologist at Texas Children’s Hospital. I had listened to Dr. Hotez evening after evening on CNN during the pandemic. I found his information about how to navigate the ups and downs of Covid 19 to be on point and informational. He did not speak to his audience in baby talk. Instead he reported facts, often admitting that the doctors and scientists of the world were learning as the virus evolved. Thus we got a lesson in the anatomy of a new strain of infection night after night along with guidance on what to do to keep ourselves as healthy as possible. Because I followed his advice to the letter my husband and I made it through unscathed and I became an admirer of this incredible man who lives and works in my city.

His lecture was warm, honest and quite personal. We learned the story of his family and how he found his way to Texas Children’s Hospital. We found out more about the more traditional vaccine that he developed for countries without the refrigeration and supply chain capabilities needed for the kind of vaccines produced by pharmaceutical companies in highly developed countries. He gave away the patent of Corbavax to country wanting to use his formula which was then administered to millions of people. 

Dr. Hotez’s story is that of a man who has dedicated himself to the pursuit of science and truth. He has worked for his entire life to treat those who suffer from the ravages of diseases that are rarely studied by big companies that do not stand to make much money on products used for the poorest people in the world. He mostly worked quietly in his laboratory before Covid 19 hit the world when his expertise in viruses and vaccines pulled him into the fray of controversy regarding how we should respond to worldwide epidemics. Sadly the anti-science faction of the country has marked him as a demon when the truth is that he is an earnest man with a sweet smile whose goal has always been to help the least noticed among us. 

I ended my perfect day with dinner at an Italian restaurant where Mike and I toasted each other with wine and spoke about the event that we had just enjoyed. I so love that I am continually learning and evolving and progressing. Life is not about standing still and turning to stone. It is about the adventure of opening our minds to the possible.