Category: Commentary

There was a time when it was quite easy to move back and forth across the border between Mexico and the United States. North Americans and citizens of Central and South America traveled freely from one place to the other. Workers made daily treks to jobs in one country and went home at night in their homes in another country. Many from south of the border with Mexico and the United States sometimes did seasonal work for months at a time throughout different parts of the U.S. When the tasks were finished they returned to their families. Nobody needed a passport or special papers to do such things. The countries lived in a kind of harmonious agreement of mutual support until the nineteen seventies when concern about the flow of drugs resulted in the near closing of the border. In each successive decade the problem of illegal immigration has only grown, leading some who have studied the issue to wonder if tougher policies about travel back and forth was the wrong approach compared to that of the past. 

In the ensuing decades the problems with immigration have continued to grow with few attempts to refine immigration policies and most emphasis being placed on policing the border and apprehending those who cross illegally. Since the tragedy of 9/11, 2001, there has been a growing fear of who might be finding their way into the United States illegally. With economic and political downturns in many of the countries to the south, the flow of people seeking refuge has become steady. Families are literally risking their lives to escape the horrors and privations in their homelands. The old relaxed back and forth from one country to another seems like a fairytale compared to the militarized feel of today’s border crossings. 

Who are these souls willing to risk everything to get to the United States? What are they thinking when they subject themselves and their children to such a distressful journey? Why would anyone want to endure the privations that lay ahead for them? The truth of their stories may lie in the trend of reverse migration that is a huge factor in keeping the number of illegal immigrants living in the United States virtually steady over the last twenty years. 

Many young couples escaped from their home countries and found their way into the United States without legal status decades ago. They managed to find work, live frugally and begin families. Their children were born in the United States and were therefore legal citizens of the country. Those kids went to school, learned English, graduated from high school and often went to college. They are now adults with good jobs and the ability to vote in elections. They are model citizens who only know the United States as home. Stories of the old country are simply memories from their parents who often still long to see the towns that they knew as children and the parents that that they have not seen for decades. 

With their children legally settled into the United States the now middle aged couples are often ready to return to the lands of their own youth. They want to spend time with their parents before those loved ones die. With funds that they have saved from years of hard work they are often purchasing one way tickets home, happy in the knowledge that their children who are citizens of the United States will be able to freely visit them in the future. It is a trend about which we rarely hear, one that says a great deal about the sacrifices that they have made for the sake of their children. 

I have sat with students over the years who described the heart rending situations of their families. These students ultimately went on to carve out places in the middle class here in the United States, but there is a part of their family history that is incomplete. As adults they began to fully understand the fears that their parents have endured on their behalf. They feel a deep and unrelenting sadness for their parents who have silently grieved over the loss of identity for years.

We have a terrible tendency to view people that we do not know only as members of a group. Their faces blend together into a stereotype that we have imagined for them. We hear of someone being illegal and make automatic assumptions about that person when the truth of his/her life may be far more complex. We would do well to hear their stories and really know them. Then we might learn to admire them rather than revile them. We might better understand the power of love that has guided them. Seeing them as individuals rather than as members of a group that frightens and reviles us may change our thinking about how to approach the tangled knot of immigration with loving concern for everyone involved. 

Humans have traveled across the earth since the beginning of time. It’s difficult to say who was in some locale first. Our present day borders are the result of politics and wars over thousands of years. We have different languages and cultures and histories, but in the end our hearts beat in the same way and our blood flows through the same kind of veins. All of us want a home where we feel safe and loved. Perhaps if we begin to approach immigration with such thoughts in mind we may find a more humane way to determine who we will welcome as neighbors rather than focusing on those that we want to turn away. We need to start with kindness and only bring out our big sticks when the individual cases warrant it. It’s time that we first attempt to learn who these souls really are.

I tossed and turned last night. I finally fell asleep about three in the morning. It happens to me sometime. I can never predict when a sleepless night will occur. It does not seem to coincide with anything that I ate or my activities for the day. Suddenly and without warning my head is so full of ideas that I seemingly have to address them or my brain will burst. Mostly they are random thoughts that are disconnected from one another. All of them seem to be in need of attention. I lie awake dealing with them one by one and eventually am free from them and snoozing. 

My calendar is full these days, not with exciting social events or trips, but with schedules to visit doctors and reminders of wakes and funerals. I remember my sweet mother-in-law describing her late life as a series of old people’s responsibilities. She died at the age of seventy six after attending more funerals in her last years than I was able to imagine. Now that I am in in my seventies funerals and visits to doctors have become regular routines in my life. 

When I thought of my mother-in-law last night I was reminded of how important it is to do more than just exist from day to day. I thought of ways to enhance my life with more than the mundane. I want to put visits with living friends on my to do list. I want to embrace all that nature has to offer. I want to be sure that I have been responsible, but also that I have taken the most from every single day that I am able to grab. 

I remember my brother taking my sister-in-law’s mother along with his family on trips. She was wheelchair bound but it never slowed her down. She was willing to roll along the streets of Europe to see the places that she had dreamed of visiting. She always found someone willing to carry her and her chair up stairs or hills so that she might enjoy a beautiful view. The innate goodness of the vast majority of humans blessed her again and again because she was fearless enough to go out among them . 

My thoughts of the night moved to the many problems of my friends and family members and all people of the world. I know I can’t solve them all, but I can tackle the ones that are within my abilities. I can sit next to someone who is sad or just send them a note of encouragement if they are too far away. I can stop fretting about things that I can’t change and attempt to spread kindness wherever I go. Often it is in the tiniest moments that we make the most difference. 

Somehow my mother-in-law came to my mind in between and toss and turn. Perhaps she is watching over me or maybe her wisdom has stayed with me in the years since she left. I remembered her talking about the death of Jesus Christ. She often noted how he had been spurned by his fickle followers in his final walk to the cross. His apostles were hiding. Still, there was the courageous man who helped Jesus lift the cross he was bearing when he stumbled. There is a profound message in that simple act of kindness. We all know someone who is suffering through a difficult time. We would do well to help them regain their footing. 

I read a blurb about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, one of the greatest basketball players of all time. I thought of how I saw him play when he was still in college at the old Astrodome in Houston. He was a stunning man who went on to achieve greatness. He has sold many of the trappings of wealth and achievement to fund youth education programs. He realizes that our earthly treasures are ultimately worth nothing to us, but investments in the well being of people live on far after we are gone. 

I want to be like Kareem and unselfishly give of what I have. The day will one day come when it is my funeral that is on the calendar of the people I know and love. I would like to think that I have helped them in some meaningful way while walking and talking with them on this earth. Being more selfless should be the admirable goal of each of us. That favorite possession or price of a new pair of shoes just might help in changing the trajectory of someone’s life.

Maybe my thoughts were supposed to happen in the middle of the night when I could not be ignore them by busying myself. In really thinking about what to do about the difficulties that concern me I realized that I can only do so much, but also that I still have the power to do something, even if it seems small. Each of us has something remarkable to offer that will make the world a much better place. Once I reached this conclusion I fell into a deep and restful sleep. I awoke a bit later than usual, but that was okay. I feel refreshed and determined to make each day count by sharing my time and my treasures. My thoughts reminded me again of how to live well. I’m rested and ready to engage with the people I encounter. I plan to give more and worry less.

Three years ago I felt the seriousness of the worldwide pandemic with full force. I accompanied by husband to Methodist Hospital for a procedure on his heart. It was an eerie experience. The valet parking was closed so we had to scurry to find a place to leave our car while he was undergoing his surgery. As we walked into the Walter Tower we were greeted by masked nurses who took our vital signs and asked a series of questions before we were allowed to proceed to the floor where my husband would get two stents placed in the arteries of his heart. 

There was a ghostlike feeling to the usually bustling place. Guards directed us so that we would not wander into restricted areas. When we finally arrived to the cavernous waiting area to check in we were stunned by how few people were actually there. Couples huddled next to each other far away from contact with other humans. Everyone wore masks and interactions were brief. The floors reeked with the smell of disinfectants applied regularly by the cleaning crew. 

My husband was quickly taken to a private waiting room and I sat alone in the quiet of the cavernous hall. The coffee machines were dismantled. All signs of hospitality were missing. Nobody spoke to one another. Not even their eyes smiled. There was a kind of suspicion of strangers that made the long wait much more difficult to endure. It was the beginning of a three year journey with uncertainty. At that point in time death was lurking in hospitals across the world and nobody knew exactly how to deal with the novel virus that would soon sweep to every corner of life. 

Normally my husband would have spent the night in the hospital after his surgery, but on that day he would be monitored until he was deemed ready to go home. It took until almost midnight before the doctors released him. I had sat alone in the huge room for hours. I was hungry and exhausted and more frightened about Covid than I had previously been. The precautions of the hospital personnel had convinced me that this was a serious moment not to be ignored. 

Only hours before midnight a nurse came to accompany me to the parking garage to retrieve my car. It took us a great deal of time to find an outlet because many of the exists and entrances to the hospital were securely locked. Eventually we found our way out of the maze of hallways. I exited the garage and drove to the front of the Walter Tower where my husband was waiting in a wheelchair. The nurses helped him into the car and with expressions combining both fear and concern wished us both well in the coming weeks. 

Of course we all know the rest of the three year saga that affected each of us. There were so many losses of people, jobs, learning, goodwill. We were so ready to return to what felt normal that we hardly acknowledged the passing of time. We have tended to pretend that the whole thing is over and that we probably overreacted. In truth people are still contracting Covid and some of them are dying. The ravages of that virus has changed us. We are less open, less certain, less willing to sacrifice than we once were. We just seem to want to get on with life even as some among us worry that we are celebrating too soon. 

I personally feel a bit like Rip Van Winkle. It feels as though I have been in a deep sleep while the world continued on its pace. I still can’t quite feel the same lightheartedness that once defined me. I have witnessed too much hurt and anger to just pretend that all is well. I grieve for those who lost loved ones and had to endure seemingly unsympathetic attitudes of people who were angry at being forced to be cautious. I know how sick some people became and I have watched them struggle to become healthy again. There should have been some kind of remembrance of our neighbors and friends who died, but somehow we are not in the mood to even speak of the long nightmare. 

Ironically my husband is returning to Methodist Hospital in the coming days for one more procedure. Only one person may accompany him. We all must wear masks. The medical community is still proceeding with caution. There are still people dying from Covid. They must be careful. We are reminded once again.

This time I know the drill. I’ll bring my laptop and my cords to charge my phone and computer. I’ll have drinks and food in a bag in case I have to stay in place for a long time. I’ll think of the brave and dedicated medical people who cared for my husband three years ago and so compassionately wished us well even as they feared what might come. I will remember the beloved departed members of families that will never quite be the same. I’ll hold my own private memorial to honor all of them. I’ll hope that we have learned the right lessons from all of this. Mostly, I will remember how important it is to love. In some ways love and compassion have suffered during the past three years. It’s time we brought those things back so that we all may heal.

When I first moved to my present home in 2005 I was eager to meet my new neighbors, but I was still working and I had a great deal of work to do just unpacking things whenever I had a free moment. It was a couple of weeks before I saw the woman next door in her yard, so I walked over to introduce myself. She was quite friendly and invited me inside her home. 

After offering me something to drink she gave me a brief history of the neighborhood and the people in it. Then she took me on a tour of her house. When we got upstairs I saw a teenager sitting on his bed literally caressing an AR-15 as though it was a beloved pet. I suppose his mother noticed my confused expression because she quickly laughed and explained that it was her son’s birthday and the gun was his present. She went on to tell me that he had wanted the weapon for some time, but she and her family had decided to wait until they felt he was old enough to use it properly. I stood mutely attempting to think of a way to leave quickly and feeling a strange sick sensation upon seeing the boy so enchanted with his new toy. 

Not long after that the people next door put a for sale sign in their front yard and I have to admit that I was elated that they were leaving. My teacher radar had gone into overdrive after seeing the young man so enchanted with his powerful gun. Somehow I felt less safe knowing he was so close to my home. 

My husband was a target shooter for a time. He has guns that he inherited from his grandfather and uncles, historical pieces that they once used for hunting. He has never taken to the sport of killing animals, but he liked target shooting and often went to a local range where he actually entered contests and won several awards for his precision. That’s about the extent of his relationship with guns. 

He told me that the rules at the range regarding AR-15s were quite strict. Anyone bringing one to practice had to keep it encased until actually at the stall and nobody could have more than one round of ammunition in the gun. It had to be loaded with a single bullet for each shot. The owners of the range were well known and highly respected for their adherence to safety and for the most part they discouraged customers with the high powered rifles from coming to their place of business. 

My husband knows a great deal about guns and he has often told me that the rationale for owning an AR-15 eludes him. He pointed out that it is generally a terrible weapon for hunters because of the severe damage that it does to the organs of the animals. He finds it ludicrous that anyone aside from soldiers and police officers would ever own one, especially a teenager. He has long insisted that these weapons should not be available to the general public. He points out that when the Founding Fathers inserted the second Amendment  as an addition to the Constitution there was still not a powerful army in the United States as there were in Great Britain. Every man was part of the nation’s defense as members of the militia, Their weapons were single shot muskets. He doubts seriously that the Founders envisioned a nation of three hundred million people owning four hundred million guns, some of which are so powerful that they can do irreparable harm in a matter of seconds. As a responsible and reasonable gun owner he believes that AR-15s should be banned. 

Those who own such weapons defend their right to own them insisting that the second amendment favors them. In surveys they provide reasons for owning such a weapon to include protecting themselves, for hunting, for target shooting, and because they are fun and easy to shoot. They assert their rights to any kind of gun in the context of the second  amendment. They are such a powerful lobbying group that even when law officers insist that there is danger in having such weapons in the hands of ordinary citizens, the common sense of such arguments is generally ignored. 

In our hearts we all know that there are many reasons that mass shooters continue to wreak terror in our country. Certainly mental illness is a huge factor, but we never really do much to improve the care of those who are sick. We can turn our schools into fortresses and arm ourselves to the teeth, but in the end we know that it is the easy availability of high powered guns that is at the heart of the problem. Other countries with stricter gun laws are not seeing the carnage at the same rate that we have in the United States. 

We claim to be concerned about our children, even those that are unborn, but we have yet to adequately protect them. Arming ourselves to the teeth is not the way to insure a more stable society. Our schools should not have to become armed fortresses. We should not be teaching our children that selfishly clinging to our guns is some kind of human right. Those of us who understand such things have to speak out, make our voices heard. Violence only creates more violence. 

We have lawmakers shielding our children from books about Ruby Bridges and segregation because reading them might make them feel bad. They go to great lengths to protect the unborn, but balk at strict measures to control the sale and use of dangerous weapons. In my state people don’t need a permit or any kind of training to walk around carrying a gun in public. How are we supposed to know the good guys from the bad ones if we see someone with a pistol in full view while we shop for groceries? The absurdity of the situation needs no words.

I don’t want to have to rant about the deaths of innocent people anymore, but I believe that silence from those of us who want gun reform is deadly. I am tired of platitudes and promises and more and more fortification of public spaces and homes. I find the American fetish for guns to be disturbing. When I see Christmas cards with little children holding guns while standing next to a holiday tree I literally want to cry and scream at the same time. I wonder when we became so selfish and uncaring that we have created such a dangerous situation. I do think of those who have been harmed and I pray for them and for our country all of the time. I know that I must do more. I will continue to speak out until we finally come to our senses. I don’t know when that will be. I hope I live to see that day.

I grew up in the south where addressing adults with “sir” and “ma’m” was the polite thing to do. I was an obedient child so I always followed that rule, but my feisty mother told us that she had never done so. Her father had told his children that he did not come to America to be compelled to defer to anyone with titles that made him feel subservient. He advised them to forgo what he saw as demeaning acquiescence to others. Mama left it to us to determine whether or not we would follow the local protocols, but insisted that she would support us no matter what we decided to do. I took the less complicated route of not bucking the system, but I understood why my grandfather had felt compelled to exercise his new freedoms.

I have talked about this with my husband who relayed a similar story about his grandfather. It seems that his grandpa had refused to respond to one of his teachers with the addition of the word “ma’m.” For his impertinence he received corporal punishment. When the young fellow’s mother heard what had happened she rushed to the school and gave the teacher a couple of licks with her buggy whip. The story of that moment became a legend in the family that spoke to the kind of negative response that supposedly polite words can engender. 

I’ve heard of immigrants from England who told their offspring that nobody was a servant anymore and therefore nobody had to use those kind of salutations. For many people “sir” and “ma’m” feel like holdovers from times of slavery, indentured servitude and demeaning occupations. Because I’ve had a good life I’ve never felt offended by having to use such language, but I have seen the hurt in the eyes of those who had at one time felt trapped by people with power over them who expected to be treated as superiors rather than equal humans. 

Recently I read an editorial considering the linguistic meaning of addressing someone as “ma’m.” I learned that in many regions of the United States it has become passé to use such titles and doing so is actually insulting. It reminded me of a friend’s son who was chastised by a teacher who thought that the boy was making fun of her by using that salutation. In truth he had only recently moved to California from Texas where such a way of addressing any woman was expected. He had no idea that he sounded insulting to the harried teacher. 

I studied linguistics in college and it is quite fascinating. We are all products of the places, the people and the events that we have encountered in life. Something as seemingly simple as a word can have multiple meanings depending on the experiences of those that we encounter. If I am a teacher in charge of a classroom I find no offense from a student calling me “Ma’m.” If someone close to may age uses the same word I feel a bit put off as I wonder if I actually look older to that person. Situational linguistics is quite fascinating. There really is a time and place for all forms of communication. We would do well to be careful in how we address people that we do not know. Without walking in their shoes we may not fully understand their reactions to what we have to say. 

While visiting London we of course used the Tube to get around town. Most of the time we easily found seats but one morning we left our hotel during rush hour. We were crammed into the car like sardines. Suddenly a man looked over and innocently said, “May I give you my seat, Mum?” 

For a split second I felt a bit angry. It crossed my mind that he somehow thought that I was so old and weak that I could not stand like everyone else. While I mused my expression must have been all too clear because he suddenly looked away with embarrassment. He somehow got the message that I had felt insulted by his offer of a seat. I realized then that he had only been attempting to be kind and that I had been the offender in the situation. Within a split second I smiled and thanked him profusely for the generous offer. We switched places and I enjoyed a comfortable ride to my destination. 

I would soon learn that being called “Mum” in London was a very respectful thing. I began to take the salutation as an honor., especially after I heard that the people called Queen Elizabeth, “Ma’m,” a way of addressing exclusive to her. “Mum” was for all other women who had reached a time of honor and reverence. In the smiles and warmth of the people who called me “Mum” I saw that they wanted to be kind to me.

Language is important. When we offend someone with how we address them it is most often because of something in their background that felt hurtful. We should be willing to accommodate them with the freedom to avoid certain words that make them feel unseen or misunderstood. We also need to be willing to realize that words that offend us may not be spoken in the ways we think they are. Sometimes it’s just a matter of taking the time to analyze the situation. Our words matter and so do our responses to them.