Category: Commentary

One of the most difficult aspects of my teaching job was hearing stories of horrible abuse being perpetrated on some of my students. So many were being used as sexual objects or whipping posts by the very people who should have been protecting them. In the earliest days of my career their situations almost derailed my intent to be a lifelong teacher. The things I learned were so egregious that I became an emotional wreck. I knew that my efforts to help them were shallow at best, Most of the time all I was able to do is alert the school counselor and the principal and hope that they would be able to alter the horrific trajectory of the students’ lives. 

I still see their faces and their stories echo in my brain. They are the ones who broke my heart because I understood that their childhoods had already been severely damaged. I think of the girl whose mother shaved her head and damned her for bringing head lice into the family. I see the young boy shivering in a bathroom stall with a pair of scissors at this throat ready to end his life because his mother had once set him on fire. I recall watching the twelve year old girl grow great with a child implanted in her whom by an uncle. I remember the tears of a young boy whose mother left him in charge of the family each evening as she went out to earn a living with prostitution. I think of the eleven year old child whose family held him responsible for his sister’s rape because he had lost track of her when he was babysitting. 

Such stories of children being used terribly by adults are not as uncommon as most of us want to believe. I know that learning of such things was an horrific eye opening experience for me. I grew up in a loving home and neighborhood. If such things were going on around me, I never heard of them save for the murder that took place on my street when I was nine years old. I suppose that my mother shielded me from such things and the bubble in which I lived was air tight. Nonetheless she was constantly warning me to be aware that such things do happen. I thought that her advice was hyperbolic because my own world seemed so perfect and safe. 

Of course I learned as an adult that there had been an undercurrent of dark events even in my seemingly safe surroundings. My feeling that something was off with one of my teachers was ultimately revealed to be true when a story of his abuse of a student came to light. I found out that the daughter of one of my mother’s friends had aborted a baby with a knitting needle when she was fifteen. I realized that the whispers about a man’s death were a cloak for his suicide. I knew that my favorite uncle died from his cancer even though my elders thought they had kept that sad truth from troubling me. I realized that even in the seemingly most perfect setting horror can find its way inside.  

I count myself quite fortunate for growing up in a loving and happy environment. I appreciate my mother’s efforts to protect me from harm and the harsh realities of the world, but I also know that I reached a point at which it became important for me to know of the atrocities of life so that I might be able to spot potentially harmful situations. I learned about such things mostly from reading books. I found out about the dark side of humanity in beautifully scripted paragraphs that horrified me and enlightened me. I saw that there have always been people in the world who use other in despicable ways. 

While it was disheartening and even a bit traumatic to read such things. They also taught me why my mother was so careful. It prompted me to be more aware of people and surroundings just as my mom had always counseled me. The stories of characters in dire situations helped me to put a face on abuse and injustice that I might not otherwise have had because I had been so sheltered. While such discoveries were shocking, they did not create confusion in my mind. On the contrary, the truth behind them helped me to be a better more understanding person.

Our duty as parents, educators, adults is to protect our children from harm. It is a noble and important purpose, but in the process we don’t want to keep our kids so innocent that they will not know what to do or how to react when they face dangers or corrupt behaviors. If they do not understand that such ways of behaving actually exist they may believe that something is wrong with them, not the perpetrator, if they encounter abuse. Exposing them gently but honestly to truth over the span of their childhoods is important. Talking with them about the things that they fear in an open manner is the best way of dealing with the traumas that they encounter or imagine. If we don’t broach such topics in the home, certainly the child will encounter them from their friends.  It’s best that we do not leave it to children to teach each other. 

There is much concern these days about the books that children read and the lessons that they learn from teachers. While I have seen rogue educators who do and say inappropriate things, such individuals are few and far between. Most people in schools are dedicated to improving the lives of their students, not endangering them. Books can be powerful tools in this endeavor. While sometimes they reveal harsh truths about the world, they also create teachable moments that strengthen the resiliency and goodness of the students. They also induce critical thinking which is perhaps the most important skill that any child will need to survive in the world as it is. 

Charlotte’s Web is a difficult read. Children invariably cry when they hear its story, but we should not be quick to whisk it away because it creates difficult emotions. Death is something what happens, even for little eight year old girls. Knowing about it and taking about it softens the shock of the blow if and when it occurs. I does not make the pain go away, but it helps to know that it is part of a shared human experience and that there are ways to keep moving forward. 

To me this is what good literature and history is about. It reveals the cracks in our society, but it also demonstrates that somehow we humans pick up the pieces of personal and collective disasters over and over again. It teaches us to be wary of any situation or person who makes us feel uncomfortable. It builds more trust to know the truth than to be the victim of lies about reality. 

I am a fortunate soul. I have been essentially untouched by evil thus far, but I have seen its effect on others. I know that it is out there and I am always aware of the pitfalls of being naive. My knowledge makes me strong, not fearful. I do environmental scans watching for signs of trouble. I am in touch with the heart beat of the world around me. I have learned this from my mother, books and teachers willing to share the truth with me. 

I suppose that I would be the perfect person to write a  book about an awkward girl. For most of middle and high school years I literally felt like a misfit. I got over those feelings in college and never really looked back, but I was a remarkably empathetic middle school and high school teacher because I identified with students who were struggling to find their way in a world that often judges us by our beauty and physical prowess. 

I was never homely but I was the epitome of a late bloomer. I was still under five feet tall until my junior year of high school. Curves and big hair were in during the era in which I came of age. I, on the other hand, weighed well under one hundred pounds and had legs so thin that they were often impolitely called “bird” legs. I was still wearing a beginner bra until my senior year. My fine hair never worked well with the big bouffant styles that all of the other girls seemed able to create with ease. 

I never knew if my shyness came because of my nature or due to my embarrassment that i still resembled a little girl. Add to that my total lack of physical abilities and I was disaster in my own mind. I covered my flaws by hiding my head in books and making extraordinary grades. I pretended that I thought it was cute to be so small and physically underdeveloped. I made jokes about my inability to jump hurdles, throw balls, or otherwise excel in any kind of game other than those of the mind. 

I doubt that most people knew just how ridiculous I actually felt. Later I would also realize that even the most beautiful and athletically inclined girls in my class had bouts of self loathing. Everyone it seems was trying to fit into molds that did not quite fit with who they were. Some wished that they had put more effort into studying like I did. Others worried about some physical aspect of their bodies that none of the rest of us ever saw. In fact I am rather certain that each of us was so tied up in our angst that we rarely noticed that those around us were suffering from reduced self esteem as well. 

They say you can’t go back to do things over, and I doubt that anyone would want to do so even if given the chance. Those growing up times were painful enough to endure once. Twice would be horrific even with the glorious possession of adult confidence. Besides, times have changed and in all likelihood we would still find problems. They are an inevitable part of those very awkward years. 

As a teacher I remember a time when two girls were sitting together at a table. One of them still looked very young but had the bones of someone who would become a spectacularly beautiful woman. The other had developed very early and was painted with an excess of makeup and false fingernails. A young man looked longingly in their direction and opined, “She is so gorgeous.” When I asked him which one he meant, he looked at me like I was blind and noted that the younger looking girl was a homely dog. After I chastised him for being so rude, I suggested that he look her up in a few years because I could clearly see how lovely she already was. 

My prediction was one hundred percent on target. The girl who had been called ugly is now stunning to everyone who sees her, and not only developed physically, but went on to become a confident and successful doctor. I doubt that anyone who knows her now would ever imagine that she once came to me crying because she wanted be attractive like the other girls. She is magnificent now from the inside of her heart to her external beauty. 

I often attempted to help young people understand that we go through those awkward years and then hopefully learn how to develop confidence and self-esteem. For some it is difficult to believe that adulthood really does bring about the changes that they desire. We are also in an era when bullying is almost a blood sport. We even willingly give power and admiration to adults who take joy in insulting others. Somehow it seems that it would be far more terrible to be awkward in today’s world when the abuse from others can be plastered online for all the world to see and hear. Back in my day the torment mainly came for my own lack of self-worth. I could joke and pretend that it wasn’t really there. Now I witness a more intense level of torture for kids who become a target of derision. 

I slowly but surely learned to love myself exactly as I am. I still trip on my own feet, but it’s okay that I will never be a championship volleyball player. I am not beautiful, but I look nice enough. the hair is still a problem, but I make do with styles that work. I often wish that I were skinny again because my body has more than made up for my once mega thinness. I look in the mirror and really like the person that I see and I even remember the exact moment when I began to feel that way. I was in my very early twenties when I knew that I was fabulous just the way I am. It is very good to be able to embrace myself and then turn my attention on everyone else. There is always someone out there who needs some encouragement and love.

My Grandma Minnie Bell was a tiny little thing who would not have been five feet tall even if she stood her her toes. She didn’t have an inch of fat on her body so I doubt that she ever weighed a hundred pounds. In spite of her smallness she was a tough women who would have been a successful contestant on the popular television hit Survivor. She could handle a river filled with snakes and bring home something for dinner with a fishing pole or a rifle. She knew which plants were edible and which were poison. She had the ability to make things grow even then they appeared to be dead. She found uses for everything, never wasting, never wanting. 

Grandma remembered going to school off and on for a very short time. She never learned how to read or write before she was called back home to take on family duties. She was illiterate but she had more common sense than anyone that I have ever known. She was a bonafide survivor, not just a television version of one and I found myself learning from her every single time we got together. She was a great teacher of the subject of life. 

My grandmother learned from experiences and she was an exceptional student in that regard. She was able to name every bird that flew her way with uncanny knowledge about their habits just from observing them. She knew how to communicate with them by making sounds that mimicked their calls. She showed us how to follow the tracks of animals and what we might learn about them just by noticing their strides and the depth of their footprints. She taught us how to be respectful and cautious in the wild places of nature. She even showed us how to dress to protect ourselves from the elements. Taking walks with her was like being in the presence of a world renowned botanist or a professor of animal sciences.

Grandma might have taught a course in agriculture. She had instincts and homegrown knowledge about when, where and how to plant everything from flowers to fruit trees. She created a Garden of Eden with her techniques, all of which she likely learned when she had to leave the formal classroom to stay home and help her family. She might easily have hosted a gardening program with all of her tips and experiences. There never seemed to be anything that she could not grow bigger and better than anyone had ever seen. 

Grandma was a little fireball of activity. She awoke before the sun came up because she understood that working in the cool of the morning was preferable to waiting for the noon day heat. By eight or nine each day all of her cultivating and pruning and picking was already completed. Then she would turn to her indoor projects. She used feed bags to make her dresses and when those dresses were worn she would turn the fabric into quilts. She was a conservationist before it was fashionable to be a conservationist.

If someone had recorded Grandma’s lessons about living and then transcribed them into written form, her wisdom might have filled a dozen books. She could have been a contributor to the Foxfire series of pioneer folkways. She explained how ordinary folk brushed their teeth when she was a girl. She told me that she used an old rag to rub ashes from the cooking fire across her pearly whites and then she would swish around some water and spit it on a plant so as not to waste that precious liquid. She would laugh when I showed my amazement and asked how well it worked, telling me that her dentures seemed to be proof that it wasn’t as effective as she had hoped. Her stories of outhouses were instructive and interesting as well. 

My grandmother’s folksy wisdom kept her family warm and well fed but it also provided them with a genuine love of nature and its place beside us in this world. Even my father echoed her notions that we must honor the creatures who live around us and nurture the plants that provide us with sustenance and beauty. From the time I was very young my grandmother taught me things that I have never forgotten. She was a natural born teacher who quietly hid the reality that she was not even able to write her own name. 

I remember being shocked the first time that I realized her lack of formal education. I accompanied her and my grandfather to sign some important papers. I watched as she put an “X” on the line for her signature after which my grandfather printed her name as her representative. I was only seven but had already mastered the art of writing my name and reading enough words to understand what the document was about. I felt her shame in being unable to read or write and I wanted to hug her and tell her that she knew so much more than most people ever learn. Instead I sat quietly admiring her dignity and thinking of how incredibly she had overcome her deficiencies in schooling. Perhaps that was a moment when the idea of teaching lit up a part of my soul. 

My Grandma Minnie had a PhD. in common sense. She learned by closely observing everything and everyone around her. She used her curiosity to explore. She may not have had formal papers to certify her knowledge but she was nonetheless incredibly educated in practical ways. We too often downplay the value of hands on experience in the process of true learning. She was a graduate of the oral tradition, the university of folks who tackled the challenges that they encountered with an understanding of how things actually work. I miss those mini-lectures that she provided me whenever she demonstrated her skills. She was a brilliant woman.   

I never had many opportunities to learn much about music. I remember memorizing “Every Good Boy Does Fine” to identify the progression of keys on sheet music. I once had to perform “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” on a recorder and then on the piano. I attempted to play the drum for our school’s drill team but I was so short that the snare kept flipping upside down when I attempted to march. I kept the drumsticks for years nonetheless but never really got past “tap flam tap flam, tap flam idy flam.” The bugle was out as well because try as I may I was never able to blow hard enough to get even a squeak out of the instrument. Musically I am a total failure other than being a great appreciator of the many ways that humans turn sounds into glorious feasts for the senses. 

I suppose that if I had begun lessons with an instrument at a young age I might have mastered the artistry of making beautiful music. One of my daughters attempted the oboe with a small amount of success but she chose dance over band in high school and set her reeds aside. All of my grandchildren have become rather proficient with one instrument or another. They’ve chosen everything from tubas to the cello and one has continued his musical journey with piano, guitar and drums. 

Not being able to read music or play an instrument is one of the regrets of my life. I’d consider trying something now but I know that my hands are not nearly as flexible as they once were and I’m not so sure that my mind is as sharp either. Furthermore I have no idea what type of instrument I would want to learn. Long ago I tried the piano and realized that my tiny fingers were not well suited for stretching across the keys that is often required. Of course I know that drums and bugles don’t work for me either. My husband attempted to interest me in the guitar but working the strings hurt my fingers too much. I suppose that I might be best suited for something like the clarinet or maybe a flute. 

I think it would be fun to join a rock band like the Rolling Stones. I’d want to be one of the back up singers harmonizing almost anonymously. I do know how to sing. My mom used to teach us how to harmonize with simple tunes. I picked up on her instructions rather quickly and I find myself singing harmony all the time to this very day. I’m not a soprano nor am I a pure alto but my “somewhere in between” voice works quite well in complementing the lead singer. 

My brothers and I used to put on neighborhood shows and charge a very small admission for the mothers and younger kids to came to see our acts. Our mom taught us tap dance routines and songs in which the three of us harmonized beautifully. People used to ask her where she had received her musical training and she would laugh because she picked it up by watching those old musicals from the nineteen forties. When she became a teacher people would stop outside her classroom to listen to the lovely sounds of her students singing in arrangements that she had created. She had a natural bent that I somewhat inherited.

I love to listen to music when I am driving around by myself. I tend to play the same songs over and over so that I know all of the words and nuances of the melodies. I’ve harmonized with the Beatles and Sting. I’ve imagined myself backing up Prince and Michael Jackson. I can really belt it out when nobody is around. I become a bit more inhibited if I know that someone is listening. 

I used to do some tutoring at one of the schools where I once taught math full time. There was a guy on the radio who played “Oh Happy Day” every Friday morning at eight. On the way to the school I tuned in just to hear that song and join with the choir in the background, then I would turn him off because his show was political and I had no interest in that. I’d perk up and be ready to conquer the world after my private recital. 

When my daughters were small my husband and I taught them to sing “White Christmas” with us in four part harmony. Our tradition was to meet with our extended family at my brother’s home on Christmas Eve. On the way there we would do our best version of that classic song and then repeat it again on the way home. We imagined our version as being so good that we would surely land a recording contract if anyone ever heard us, but mostly if was fun to make music together. 

Music is the sound of angels. It is one of the most remarkable human accomplishments. How wonderful that we think to alter our voices in song or use objects to make lyrical sounds! Music tells stories and touches our hearts. It soothes us and challenges our imaginations. In a word it is glorious and we need more of it in our lives.  

My life has been filled with difficulties that sent me in search of inner peace. I was an observant and sensitive child. I noticed when things were amiss around me even though adults back then did not share their concerns with children. I would witness the whispering  and catch snatches of conversations. I was able to put together clues that things were not quite right. I suppose I have always been aware of tension and, even as a little one, I wanted to help to alleviate it.

When I was about four years old I discovered that my favorite uncle had cancer. He was very honest about his condition and the prognosis for his future. He spoke to me about it as though I was much older. Instead of frightening me, his honesty was comforting. I also learned that he had made peace with his situation. His condition became dire when I was five. He came to the Veterans Hospital in Houston along with my aunt who was many months pregnant with their first child. I immediately knew what was happening even though my elders gave me no explanations about their frenzy.

There was much upheaval in our home as my father noticeably grieved for his best friend and my mother cared for my newborn baby brother. With so much chaos on the horizon my family decided to enroll me in school. Without warning I suddenly became a first grader in a world for which nobody had prepared me. It was left to a classmate named Virginia and an exceptional teacher to soothe my anxieties as I secretly worried that my uncle’s time was coming to a close. When later that year he died, I clutched the special times that he and I had shared. 

It was my first real experience with death and I suffered it alone because the adults did not realize the depth of my understanding and my feelings. I comforted myself by remembering our times together and by cherishing the gift of honesty that he had given me. Somehow he knew how much I loved him and how hurt I would be if I did not know why he had died. Because of his loving concern for me I was able to quietly handle my grief. 

I also knew how shattered my father was. I knew that he was trying to come to grips with his loss, but he never spoke of it to me. Instead he often invited me to accompany him on little excursions around town where we did little more than sit quietly with each other. In the year before Daddy died he took me fishing several times. I physically felt him relax as he baited the hook and dropped his line into the water. I sat beside him being ever so quiet lest even a tiny sound might scare the fish away. I heard my father’s breathing and I felt a special kinship with him in those moments. I sensed that I understood him and that he understood me. Just sitting together was the panacea that began to heal us both. 

When my father died the adults once again believed that at eight years old I was far too young to conceive of what had happened. They did not realize how deeply the loss of my father impacted me. I felt as though he and I had shared a secret connection with those rides in the car and the fishing expeditions. I believed in heaven and an afterlife, so I was happy that he would see my uncle again even as I felt an obligation to help my mother and brothers through our family sorrow. My emotions were conflicted in a way that stole my courage, but no my grit.

I went through a time feeling like a shadow of myself. I did not want to bother my mother with any troubles. Instead I found comfort and peace being with my grandmother Minnie. She spoke openly of my father, telling me what he was like as a boy. She smiled and cried at the same time as she spoke of what a good son he had been. She gave me a tattered story book that had once been his. She filled in the gaps of my father’s story that I needed to hear. We connected in a magical way. 

I was fifteen when my grandmother died. It was yet another blow to my heart. That is when my grandpa stepped in to become my source of strength and comfort. He was a survivor whose life had been punctuated with even greater loss than mine. His mother died in childbirth. The grandmother who raised him died when he was thirteen. The uncle who became his guardian died when he was twenty one. He had lost his only son and then the love of his life. Somehow he remained strong through it all, but he never tried to cover the depth of his feelings. He became my refuge whenever I needed a place to find inner peace. He delivered that solace every single time, even when I did not openly ask for it. 

I am a religious person and I have daily conversations with God, but sometimes I find the need to connect with another human on a very personal and spiritual way. It has been my method for dealing with whatever challenges I have had to face. Somehow God has always placed people in my path with who seem to understand me and love me even when I am not so lovable. Ultimately that person became my husband, a man who was taught by his own mother and father to be infinitely patient and kind. 

I have been blessed at various times with friends like Virginia who accept me and my thoughts and beliefs without judgement. They too have provided me with the inner peace that I need to struggle through the difficult times. Sometimes they come and go and other times they become lifelong friends. They must surely know who they are because I have done my best to let them know how much they mean to me. Attempting to name them would be difficult because I might inadvertently forget someone who has a special place in my heart. 

My inner peace is the product of understanding, honesty and love from many who have touched my heart at the very moments when I most needed them. Even without exchanging words I felt a calmness arise in my soul just being present with them and long after they are gone I still remember.