Category: Commentary

I was a finalist for an award naming the graduate from the University of Houston School of Education who was most likely to succeed. The prize was mostly just an honor although there was some form of monetary gift that I would have like to receive. I was excited that my professors had nominated me so I took great care in preparing for the interview. This was many decades ago when dress codes were a really big thing, so I wore a navy blue suit, stockings, and dress pumps. I did what I could with my fine hair that more often than not has a mind of its own and drove to talk with the judging committee at the school campus. 

Finding a parking place at the University of Houston has always been a competitive sport. On may occasions I would find myself driving for twenty minutes or more up and down rows of cars hoping to discover an empty spot. I had learned to always anticipate a delay, so I arrived with what I hoped would be plenty of time to begin my hunting expedition for the rare available slot and then make the hike to the building where the interview would take place. 

As expected it took me a great deal of time to secure an available place to leave my car. I was rather far away from the building where I needed to go. Ordinarily that would not have been a particularly inconvenient thing because I had built up the stamina to walk long distances on the campus. The problem on this day was that it was unusually windy and my hair flew in every direction as soon as I stepped out of the car. As though I had been cursed in some manner the wind was followed by a light shower when I was halfway to my destination. 

By the time I had finally reached the safety of the building I resembled a wet dog and I had little extra time to dry out and do something to enhance my disheveled aspect. Not only was my hair ruined, but somewhere along the way I had snagged my stockings and there was a huge run that went from my heel all the way up to the hem of my skirt. In those days it was still anathema to be bare legged, so I had no choice but to walk to the interview attempting to psych myself into forgetting how I looked. I would just have to wing it and demonstrate confidence in spite of my appearance. 

In truth i was totally unnerved and never regained the momentum that I had felt when i was getting ready at home. I sensed that the people interviewing me were wondering why I had not taken more pains to at least look presentable. My efforts to dress to impress had gone up in flames and with that so had my ability to maintain my calm and think on my feet. As I listened to myself answering each question I realized how trite and lame my answers must have sounded. I understood that someone as shaky as I was would not seem to be on the road to great success. To make matters worse I had to admit to them that I had not yet secured a teaching position even though I had been working on doing that for weeks. At the moment I felt like a major failure. 

Of course I did not win the award. My fellow classmates were somewhat surprised by my loss, but when the victor was announced at our graduation I had already resigned myself to the outcome. In the long run it had little or no effect on the trajectory of my career and eventually I even realized that any judgements of my success would ultimately come from me, not someone else’s opinions. Over the long haul I felt that I had achieved a very purpose driven life that was filled with wonderful memories of students and teachers whose lives I had affected. None of them had ever remotely cared what I was wearing or how well my hair stayed in place. Dressing for success had even become a matter of comfort and my own taste rather than something that distracted me from my attention to the people that I served. 

I had also developed an ability to speak somewhat rationally even in an impromptu situation, mostly because I was no longer so full of myself. My focus had turned from inward anxiety to outward embracing of the people with whom I worked and the children whom I taught. I could have been going bald and wearing jeans and a ratty t-shirt and only how I treated them mattered. I also understood by then I I did not have all the answers and most likely never would. Admitting that made it easier to communicate who I was.

I enjoyed the more casual and less judgmental ways of dressing that evolved over the fifty years that I have worked with students and teachers and parents. I certainly would still differentiate between dressing for a quick run to the grocery store versus donning an outfit for a job interview, but I would put far less importance of attempting to make myself look perfect. I now know how to answer questions about my philosophies and goals without worry because I have learned to speak from my heart. 

I did obviously finally find a job after that disastrous interview for the award. I wore the same suit and had a new pair of hosiery. It was neither windy nor rainy on of the day of my interview. I don’t think the principal who spoke to me cared much about how I looked. She seemed far more excited by my willingness to teach six class of mathematics each day requiring six different sets of lesson plans.

That job would begin my love affair with education and I mostly never looked back except to laugh at my silly self. Dressing professionally evolved from having to wear dresses or skirts everyday to being free to wear jeans and a t-shirt if I so wished. The past couple of years as I taught remotely from an upstairs bedroom I even had the pleasure of holding my classes in my bare feet. Now that is success!   

We tend to think of a soulmate as being a romantic partner. I certainly hit the jackpot in that regard, but I have had soulmates in my friendships as well. i have been fortunate in finding people to whom I can bar my soul without fear of being judged or rejected, people who love me even when I get angry or down in the dumps. We may not always be on the same wavelength when it comes to our views about religion or politics or even medical advice, but our constant is a loving willingness to understand each other. 

My soulmates have come to me at different times in my life, sometimes leaving for a time and then circling back to a reunion that feels as comfortable as our relationship was before they left. They are lovely people who know me so well that they hear my sorrow even when I am doing my best to hide it. They check to see how I am doing when I haven’t even discovered myself that my optimism is waning. They read between the lines of what I say and do. They come to my rescue at the exact moment when I need them most. 

I can laugh and be silly with my soulmates but I can also get bitchy or whiny and they have patience with my outbursts. They don’t automatically give advice or try to talk me out of my doldrums. Instead they let me know that they get what I am trying to say. They are loving and judgement free. They encourage me and keep me from crashing into a sea of self-pity. 

My soulmates run the gamut of diversity. I have known some of them since i was a child, other from the time when I was a teen. I have soulmates with women I met at work and some who were once my former students. I have had neighbors whose door were always open to me and friends from church who were only a phone call away. I found a soulmate when one of my friends took her as his wife. I have soulmates young enough to be my daughters who are wise and fun and open. I have a soulmates who are like additional daughters. One of my soulmates came as a surprise because I had known of her for many years but did not know about her until we both were much older. 

Whenever I talk with one of my soulmates I feel a healing process happening in my soul. They listen and if they say anything at all it seems to miraculously be exactly what I needed to hear. In fact there is a kind of spiritual connection between me and those who have been my soulmates, a bond that is never broken even when we find ourselves in disagreement over something. 

Many of my soulmates have died. Losing them was as tragic to me as if a beloved sister was gone forever. These were women my age and women old enough to be my mother or a big sister. Among them was my mother-in-law, Mary, who was a wise voice in my life over cups of tea and little platters of cookies. She did as much to help me become the woman that I am as my own mother. Then there was Patricia, the big sister I never before had, who showed me how to have fun and allowed me to use her as a sounding board. Betty was my neighbor and the quintessential good ole gal who gave me a common sense view of the world and gave me homespun values that I treasure to this day. Bren was a rather recent soulmate who tragically died just as we were realizing how much we enjoyed each other. 

I smile when i think of all these wonderful women who have shared the joys and frustrations and sorrows of my life. I hope that I have sufficiently reciprocated when they have been in need. I would like to think that they know that I am always here for them, loving them through thick and thin. Nothing they do or say will cause me to turn my back on them. 

The person who has been my soulmate for the longest time came into my life when I was six years old. She lived across the street from my family and we fell into lockstep almost as soon as we met. She already had four sisters but somehow we thought of each other as related, bound at the hip. We imagined living our lives in tandem but events forced us away from each other time and time again. Nonetheless I can call her at any moment and we are able to talk for hours without even catching a breath. We almost complete each other’s sentences. There is an unbroken bond between us that overcomes both time and distance. 

Somehow soulmates find each other. We recognize a bond from across a room. It is an intangible connection that produces a relationship built on great trust. I have been blessed to find women who complete me. Having them along with my incredible spouse has been one of the greatest blessings in my live. These women have been my sisters by choice and I am all the better for knowing and loving them.   

I spend my early mornings leisurely eating a light breakfast, drinking tea to jumpstart my brain, working on the new “Wordle” puzzle, catching up on posts from my friends on Facebook, composing birthday wishes, and scanning the headlines of the latest news. Recently I noticed that Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall are supposedly divorcing. Reading about their lives in the world of the rich and famous made me realize how much I enjoy my own quiet life. The two of them seemingly have it all, but for whatever reason are unable to find the kind of contentment that I have experienced for most of my life. 

I suppose that most of us who are ordinary people have sometimes dreamed of being so comfortable that we never again have to worry about money. We imagine how nice it would be to just relax and enjoy the ride through life with the financial ability to help others, travel the world first class, live wherever we wish, never think twice about how an emergency will impact us. It’s a kind of pipe dream that drives lotteries and makes us believe that just a bit of good luck will change our worlds. 

The truth is that save for those who inherit wealth, most folks who store up riches have worked very hard to get them. They probably worry more about their bottom lines that we ordinary folk do. They are under continuous pressure to keep things going and their spouses and children are often under a microscope that can be unflattering. People have unbelievable expectations for them. Where they live, how they live, what they do with their money becomes public fodder. 

Personally I drive through the wealthiest areas of my city and I think of how horribly exhausting it must be to have to keep up a front. I’m such an introvert that I’m certain that I would be crushed by the expectations, the constant need to look and act just right. I would not trade my anonymity for their notoriety for any amount of money. 

I love being able to disappear into a crowd. I like that I can walk around in my yard in my bare feet without being scrutinized. I enjoy being able to go to the store wearing no makeup and boasting a head of unkempt hair. Nobody cares about what I do or how I decide to do it, and I like that. I’ve learned that with fame and fortune come responsibilities and expectations that I would be loathe to endure. I can speak my mind and it does not much matter whether I agree with the people around me or not. An ordinary life grants me much more freedom than someone in the limelight enjoys. 

I suspect that nobody has ever achieved all that they have dreamed of doing. Contentment comes not so much from having it all, but from feeling good about the choices we make as we encounter all of the challenges and opportunities that appear before us. Living well is a process and an attitude. It takes continuous introspection and adaptation. We are going to make mistakes, but our goal should be to admit them and change according to whatever is needed.

I spent most of my adult life caring for my mother during her recurring episodes of bipolar disorder. I often cursed my fate and then disliked myself for being selfish. I had to learn to forgive myself for being human. I had to sluff off guilt whenever I made wrong decisions and simply learn from them so that I might do better the next time around. I had to stop being my own worst enemy and be as loving to myself as I tried to be with my mother. 

I often marvel at my own good luck. We don’t choose our parents, but in spite of my parents’ flaws they were excellent models of how to live life well. I was fortunate in that regard. I never knew abuse of any kind from them. I understood every single day how much they loved me and guarded my well-being. I was surrounded by quirky aunts and uncles who nonetheless constantly displayed their concern for my welfare. My grandparents were hardy people who smiled even as they had to sacrifice. They all taught me to be flexible and optimistic while tackling the kind of problems that seem to plague us all. I also learned from them that sometimes even our most well intentioned efforts fall flat and the only thing we can do is learn from the muck ups we have created. 

There are things that I would like to do if there were no barriers to my dreams. I would pay for my grandchildren’s college and encourage them to go as far in earning degrees as they wish with my financial support. I would gift my children and grandchildren with as much as the government allows without taxes. I would set up scholarships and foundations for deserving students from all over the world. I would donate funding to St. Thomas High School, the KIPP Charter Schools, the University of Houston, Rice University, Trinity University, Bowdoin College, Texas Tech, the University of Notre Dame, Texas A&M University and the University of Texas. I would provide funding for research in the Texas Medical Center. My focus would be on supporting the efforts young people who might otherwise be locked out of achieving their goals. 

I am very content. I might have done more, made more of a difference, earned more money, but I can’t complain about my life. Most of the people of the world would see my lifestyle as being incredible. I live in a nice home with a big yard filled with plants that I have nurtured. My family is well educated. I have food in my pantry and good doctors to care for me when I am sick. My friends are many and my relatives are close. Nothing about me is perfect, but I am perfectly satisfied with what I have. If I could change only one thing it would be to realized my lifelong desire for unending peace on earth, or at least a reasonable facsimile of that. Even though it seems naive to ever expect that to happen i still have hope. It’s never too late to dream. 

There are two little boys working hard to wash cars on my street. They charge a ridiculously low price, but they seem to have a great deal of fun earning their money. They are about as close to being a modern version of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn as two youngsters might be. It makes me smile to hear them laughing as they work and I find myself thinking back to lazy summer days of my own childhood. 

Where I grew up and continue to live it is always hot in the summertime. Somehow I seem to notice it more than I did back then. I remember as a child racing outside each morning eagerly searching for other kids who might be ready to plan adventures for the day. I never knew exactly what to expect but there was never a dull moment on my street.

My mother was quite popular with everyone in the neighborhood because she brought out a huge thermos with a spigot each morning and placed it on a stool near the garage. She filled it with water and ice and set cups next to it for times when we got really thirsty. She often cautioned us to hydrate. We did not quite understand her reasoning back then. We drank the cool liquid to make her feel better without realizing that she probably prevented us from having heat strokes as we ran and rolled around on the grass. 

Much like the little boys on my street today, we were always conspiring to come up with ideas for making some extra cash. We did little jobs for people, created shows that our parents would pay to see, and designed newspapers with the latest information about what everyone was doing in our little corner of the world. 

We built forts and sprayed each other with the hose. Whenever someone turned on their sprinkler a horde of kids would converge in the yard to run back and forth through the spray. Nobody ever seemed to get mad when we came. In fact we always suspected that the adults turned on the showers just to allow us to have some fun. 

There was bike riding and game playing and climbing trees. Sometimes when the temperatures reached their highest point we would all go inside our respective homes and lie in front of the windows in our bedrooms with the attic fans moving hot air across our faces. That’s when I would read the books that I had checked out from the bookmobile that came to the neighborhood just across the bayou from ours. 

Other times we would meet our cousins at one of the city swimming pools. The lifeguards kept the crowds down so we only got to swim for an hour before we were ushered out while the next group came in. If we were lucky our moms let us goof around on the playground for a while, but most of the time the ladies were getting hot and wanting to get back home to take care of chores. 

There was a place not far from our house called Peppermint Park. It featured an assortment of kiddie rides under a red and white striped canvas tent. There were boat rides and cars and even little airplanes. I never got to go there but I would often look longingly at the place dreaming of one day going there to find out if it was as much fun as it appeared to be. 

When I got a bit older Astroworld opened up and my mom would treat us to a day of fun there once each summer. We arrived as they were opening the gates and stayed until they were shooing us out at the end of the day. It was a world unto itself where we forgot about any form of reality. I remember always feeling a bit strange when we walked across the big bridge that spanned the freeway and ended up in the parking lot near the Astrodome where Mama had left her car. It was like a shock to the system to end up back in the ordinary world. 

Speaking of the Astrodome, my mother loved baseball and particularly the Houston Astros. She had a friend whose cousin was a manager for one of the teams in the National League. He sent her passes to get into the ballgames and she shared them with my mom who excitedly took us often to watch the hometown heroes. That was some really good fun there and it only cost us the price of parking and a bag of peanuts to go.

My mother was a sucker for drive in movies as well. All we had to do is suggest that a good feature was showing somewhere and she would hurriedly pack sandwiches, drinks and popcorn for our evening fare. We brought along our pillows to boost our height and also in case anyone got sleepy during the second feature. We had lots of drive in theaters near where we lived, but Mama usually chose whichever one had a special admission price for a whole carload. When we went to the Trail Drive In where my aunt worked she would wink us through and we got in free. 

Sundays were the best because after church we always went to the beach to meet our aunts and uncles and cousins. We would spend the entire day splashing in the water, fishing, and watching the water skiers go by. I got many a terrible sunburn on those outings so it is little wonder that my skin is so damaged in my older age. Even knowing what I know now, I’d do it all over again. It was glorious.

The children are gathering under the shade trees in the yards around me right now. I like seeing them planning their games, setting up lemonade stands, and riding their bikes. I’m too hot to go outside to join them before the evening when the breeze here cools things down. I remember the joys of summer just watching those little ones and I feel young again. I never got to go to Peppermint Park and that’s alright. I can attest to having a blast just the way things were. My summers were so simple then and the kids on my street seem to be experiencing exactly the same kind of spectacularly unspectacular lazy days as I did. I suspect they are making memories that will one day make them smile as happily as I am doing now.  

I recall the days of old when most young men followed rules for being what we then called gentlemen. They opened doors for ladies, walked on the right side of women near the curb, pulled out chairs at tables, helped women into cars. While all of these things were nice they are not the most important aspect of being a gentleman in my mind. For me, a true gentleman is someone who demonstrates respect for all people. A gentleman encourages women to reach for their desired goals without limits. 

I happen to be married to a man whom I think of as a gentleman. He is willing to openly cry and show his emotions. He supports gay marriage because he believes that we should always be happy to see more love in our often uncaring world. He is proud to be the father of two strong women and he always supported me in my efforts to become educated and successful in my work. He listens with interest to what I have to say even when he does not totally agree with my ideas. He believes in treasuring every human and sincerely likes people. He has a generous and inclusive heart. 

While I eschewed all the little niceties of old style chivalry years ago my gentleman husband still considers it his duty to be certain that I am safe and secure. We are a team that works together in a spirit of kindness and love. We compliment each other in the ways we do things but also give each other the freedom to soar. He has celebrated all of my accomplishments without any sign of envy. 

I shudder when I see a man sucking the oxygen out of a room, demanding to be the center of attention. I abhor boastful men, bullies who make a joke of the appearances of women. I prefer my very gentle husband who sees people for what is in their hearts. He is loyal and trustworthy to the nth degree. 

Women have told me that they are afraid to become more educated than their husbands or to earn more money. Some have meekly adopted the political views of their husbands rather than studying issues and thinking for themselves. Others tell me that they simply give in whenever arguments ensue because the men in their lives insist on being right. Luckily I have never had to endure such limitations.

I only have one granddaughter and I am happy to see that she has no trouble asserting herself. She is a leader by nature and inclined to speak her mind. I cheer her because I think that too often in the history of the world women have had to accept an inferior role to men. Some people see that as a godly traditional role that is to be desired. I see it as a belief that women are somehow inferior to men, a myth that has stalked us for far too long. 

Both of my grandmothers were tiny women but their hearts were bold and strong. Grandma Mary sailed across the Atlantic alone to find a new life in America. She left behind everyone and everything that she had ever known. I can’t think of anyone I know who is more adventurous than that. My Grandma Minnie was a young widow who had to make her way with her daughter by hiring out as a cook in a boarding house. She eventually met my grandfather and remarried but her spunkiness never waned. She could hunt and fish with the best men and she was fearless when it came to fording a swollen river during a flood. I come naturally by my independent ways and I handed them down to my daughters who in turn have taught their sons and the one daughter to respect the intellect and dignity of women. 

My father-n-law is somewhat quaint. He still insists on holding doors for me and making sure that I enter a room before he does. He treasured his two wives and diligently cared for them through illnesses and surgeries. His every thought was for their comfort. I suppose that my husband learned from him but when all is said and done it was his mother who made him so great. She insisted that he show the utmost respect for all women. His encouragement and support followed him to work where the women hailed him as one of the best bosses they ever had. 

I hope that my grandsons will follow the example of their grandfather, my husband. If they treat the people they meet with the same level of respectful behavior they will find true and healthy partnerships whether at work or in matters of love. When speaking of gentlemanly behavior key words are trust, honesty, encouragement, respect, appreciation and gentleness. Men with those qualities are treasures. Men like that are strong.