Category: Commentary

Each semester for many years now my husband and I have taken a course from the Rice University Glasscock School of Continuing Education. The offerings are are always exceptional, and, if I had endless funds, I would sign up for multiple classes during each session. Instead I focus on one topic at a time, generally choosing history over anything else. One of the the conclusions that I have reached is that while we humans have generally progressed in knowledge and technology, our natures remain somewhat the same. Throughout history people have tended to engage in recurring cycles of enlightenment followed by prohibition. It is as though we desire to evolve as societies, but also fear going too far in changing our ways. Much of the push and pull in the story of humankind has a discernible pattern. When we study our ancestors, we begin to realize that there is a tension caused by our conflicting beliefs in what constitutes a better world. This continual tug of war is a source of misunderstanding, conflict and even war. 

In following the long threads of my family tree, I learned that the paternal side of my family traces its roots back to the Norsemen of old. Eventually my people found their way to Normandy and then to England. I am distantly related to Norman kings and later to Oliver Cromwell’s family, something that made me proudful until I learned more about those ancient relations in the history classes that I took. In particular, I realized that Oliver Cromwell may have advocated for freedoms, but only on his own terms. He was in fact consumed with a religious fervor that had little room for beliefs contrary to his own. He had a bad habit of sending his followers to formerly Catholic churches to destroy any icons of the Catholic faith. Freedom for him was far more restrictive than would be comfortable to me. 

So it is in my own country of the United States of America today. We are a government founded on a revolution, but tempered by a tendency to change slowly. We speak often of our freedoms, which are many, but fill our law books with limits to what we allow the citizenry to do. The progressives are more often than not at odds with the conservatives, and while there is supposed to be a separation of church and state, religion has often insinuated itself into our democratic processes. While I am a firm believer in our democratic republic, I have learned too much about its weaknesses over time to but my head in the sand when it comes to our history. As with all societies, ours has been ordered by humans, which by definition means that there are imperfections. Good intentions are often mixed with flawed philosophies and beliefs. That is why I contend that it is always important to have a hearty mixture of voices in our politics, rather than a group of people walking in lockstep. We members of the electorate should applaud the disparate voices rather than condemning those who question thinking and suggest alternatives. 

There are certain facts of history that demonstrate truths. We know that Thomas Jefferson’s brilliant mind helped to create a government with the potential to bring freedom more uniformly to people of all persuasions. We also know that when he spoke of certain unalienable rights, they did not apply to everyone at that time. His freedoms were limited to white males, excluding women and most notably, slaves. There is nothing innately wrong with critiquing Jefferson by praising his foundational principles while also noting his exceedingly contradictory flaws. Dissecting the truth, is not a sign of disloyalty to our country, but rather a healthy way of discussing the complexities of humans that create both good and bad situations in the same breath. 

We can see very clearly that allowing slavery to exist side by side with our remarkable freedoms was intrinsically wrong, and ultimately a huge mistake that led to a civil war, and continues to haunt our society to this very day. Remaining ignorant of the horrific things that came before us does little to help us to create a pathway to a better. It is in viewing the missteps of the past that we have a greater chance of improving. It is not hateful to admit that those who came before us committed transgressions. It is simply a recitation of facts from which we might learn. 

If I had the occasion to send a message in a bottle, it would be to encourage all people everywhere to temper their tendencies to adhere to a single way of thinking. It is only in opening our minds, exploring and learning from the past, and hearing the concerns of others that we will ever create a truly inclusive society. When fifty of our senators walk and think in tandem, we are in trouble. When we refuse the process of give and take in favor of doing nothing to preserve an ironclad wall of political beliefs, we are in trouble. If we do not break down the tribalism that has tainted all of history in favor of embracing our diversity, the conflicts and the wars will continue. Human suffering will be alive and well, just as it has been for centuries. 

We should be encouraging all people everywhere to join in a quest for knowledge and truth. History should not be left only for those interested enough to do the research. It is healthy and beneficial to learn how human frailties and missteps led to horrific situations that need not have occurred had societies understood how to watch for problems. Courage and patriotism are most evident when John McCain gives a thumbs down or Liz Cheney voices her beliefs or Bernie Saunders challenges us to consider new ways of thinking. We all benefit most when truth is allowed to flourish and diversity of thought is encouraged. 

Do not be afraid to parse the past. Learn and understand just how complex we humans are. See the patterns. Share the facts. It is an exercise in democracy in it finest form.  

It was long ago when I was a freshman in high school, that I received a standardized multiple choice test that appeared to have the answers on the last page of the booklet. I did not notice this quirk at first but once I got to the the last few questions, I saw the numbers that corresponded to the test, and next to each numeral was a letter. When I compared the first ten or so to my own answers, I saw that they were the same. That’s when I became a bit nervous, thinking that perhaps the real test was to determine if we were willing to cheat. I quickly put hid the last page from view, and finished my answers without changing any of them from what I had determined to be correct based on my own knowledge. 

I suppose that the simplest thing to do would have been to ask the teacher if the answer page was supposed to be included with the test, but I was still adjusting to high school life and since nobody else seemed to be rushing forward to inform our instructor, just ignored the answers and turned in my own work. Still, I worried a bit that it would be impossible for the teacher to know whether or not I had been honest. 

Eventually the teacher somehow figured out what had happened. He never revealed whether or not someone had alerted him, but he announced that there were a few too many perfect scores to be valid. He had investigated and found the answer page which he should have removed before giving the test. He laughed it off, and then gave us another test. He later told me that he gave me my original grade because I had missed enough questions that it became obvious that I had not cheated. He added a bonus of ten points to thank me for my noble gesture. 

I’ve never really understood people who cheat. I suppose my mom instilled a spirit of honesty into me from an early age. Only once did I take something that did not belong to me, and I felt so much guilt that I returned it with interest, and confessed that sin many times over just to be sure that I was actually forgiven. I see our role on this earth as being one of sharing and caring. There is little need for such fierce competition that cheating becomes an option. I suppose that some would view me as a chump, but I prefer knowing that anything I have accomplished has been done so without guile. 

I suppose that nothing disappoints me more than learning that someone or some group that I have admired has cheated. I would rather lose than become a champion by illicit means. What is really the point of gaining glory if it has only been done with a lie? Still, I hear people boasting about hiding income to reduce taxes, or using someone’s work as their own. I am a firm proponent of honor, and of late we are too often in short supply of that commodity. 

As an educator I want to know what prompts an individual to cheat. I suspect that sometimes it comes from fear of failure or intense pressure to succeed. I’ve had students whose parents demanded such high grades from them that they ultimately found ways to game the system by cheating. I’ve known individuals who were willing to lie to find a pathway to economic success. Somehow I can’t understand how there can be a feeling of satisfaction from such actions. I wonder if people somehow begin to convince themselves that winning rather than hard won accomplishment is the actual goal of life. 

I’ve always told my children and my students that we have rules because, unfortunately, some people will otherwise take advantage of various situations. We are seeing so much of that right now. If someone does not wish to receive a vaccination for Covid, that should be their choice. I cringe, however, when they take advantage of relaxed rulings that allow vaccinated citizens to go places without masks by pretending to be among those who have taken the shots. They do not seem to realize that they are endangering themselves and others when they flaunt the requests of businesses that they stay masked up. They view their actions as asserting freedom. I see it as a form of cheating. 

Little lies too often lead to bigger lies. Cheating becomes a bad habit, particularly when it appears easy to do so without being caught. We too often forget that somebody invariably gets hurt by dishonesty. Nobody who uses devious means to achieve something is ever really a winner, even if they never get caught. 

Trust is the foundation of society. When that is gone or in question it destroys relationships, businesses and lives. Honesty is the mark of the true winner. There is no greater reward than being someone on whom people implicitly rely for truth. Perhaps this is something that we do not spend enough time teaching our children through our own examples. They are watching. Hopefully they will not see us lie. 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. A great photo captures a moment in time in such a way that it becomes an icon, a representation of an era. The best photographs are classics that never become outdated. Capturing such a moment with a camera requires artistry, or at least a great deal of luck. Some people have an eye for snapping the camera at just the right moment to provide a timeless portrait of a person, a scene or an event. A great photo causes us to pause and think and ask questions. It needs no explanations to portray a split second in time. 

I have many favorite pictures. Some are quite personal. Others are works of art. All tell a story. I’ve always been in awe of antique photographs that managed to record either the horror or the glory of a particular occasion or period. I love the joy of the Times Square picture of the sailor kissing the nurse at the end of World War II. I am touched by the desperation in the weathered face of a mother in the iconic photo of people moving during the days of the dust bowl and the Great Depression. I am moved to tears by the horrific image of the little Vietnamese girl running naked through a street of Vietnam with her napalm burned skin slipping from her body. I have bleak memories when I see the stark black and white image of Jack Ruby shooting Lee Harvey Oswald.  I smile when I think of Marilyn Monroe standing over a sidewalk duct with her white dress lifting in a circle around her beautiful essence. 

I have a photograph in my kitchen that I purchased at an art show presented by students from a school where I once worked. It is one of my all time favorite photos because it encapsulate so much wonder. It features a group of young children raising their arms and looking upward with glee. The creator of the magnificent image was Martin Hernandez who told me that he saw the children reacting to a runaway balloon that had slipped from their hands, and floated into the heavens. With the eye of a true artist, he quickly snapped a picture, and then wisely cropped it to show only the children with their outstretched arms. 

Martin went on to attend the Bauer School of Business at the University of Houston but his days of artistry were not over. He became a professional photographer, combining his skill with a camera with his expertise in business. He creates one amazing picture after another with an eye for detail and finding the soul of his subjects. 

Most amateur photographs look the same. People stand in a row and smile for the camera. There is always someone looking a bit off because it is so difficult to snap an image at exactly the right moment. There is an unnatural discomfort about the vast majority of photos, but now again magic happens. I have a few of those in my collection of family, friends and travels. Perhaps my all time favorite shows my grandmother Minnie Bell feeding and tending her chickens. She almost comes to life in that still photo taken on her farm. 

Another image that I have always loved is of my mother and father at a college ring ceremony in a time when they were so young and in love. They stand in their formal glory under a gigantic replica of a Texas A&M University Aggie ring. It encapsulates so much about them and the hopefulness that they must have experienced in that moment when their lives together were only beginning. 

I have a picture of my grandmother Mary that I also treasure. She is sitting on her front porch with me on her lap and I can almost feel the calmness that was her trademark. Two photos that feature my grandfathers also seem to have captured the spirit of the men that they were. Grandpa Ulrich stands straight and tall in a decidedly early twentieth century suit staring emotionlessly but proudly into the camera like the founder of his domain. Grandpa Little is seated on a bench on the occasion of his one hundredth birthday, looking dapper with his brand new suit and his hat tilted jauntily on his head. 

I prefer photos of people, but my husband invariably focuses on scenery. I can never tell when his photographs of our travels were taken because they do not have the stamp of time that people provide. He has captured some incredible views, but I wonder if anyone else will want them when we are gone. The real treasures are the pictures that help us to understand the people who are important to us or the images that capture history. 

I’m not particularly photogenic, so I tend to avoid having my photograph taken. I don’t have many photos of myself past the time when my mother recorded my history as a child. I’ve yet to find an image of myself that I really like. Cameras do not love me. Perhaps one day I will get my sister-in-law, Katie, to attempt to find the magic in me that she so deftly finds in others. Maybe I’ll ask Martin to try his hand at making me look natural rather than self-conscious. I’d like to think that one day my children and grandchildren will have a remembrance of me that is a wonderful as the photos that I have of my own parents and grandparents. Those treasures are priceless. 

I’m not sure exactly when I first got my Tiny Tears doll, but it was before I started school when I was five. That little doll and I became inseparable. I literally dragged her everywhere I went as though she was a real baby. I called my doll, Jeannie. She had a tuft of brown curly hair just like a real infant might have. Best of all there was a tiny hole in her mouth through which I was able to feed her bottles of water. Of course, she would eventually need a diaper change from drinking the liquid, so it felt as though she was a real baby. 

I’m not certain what eventually happened to Jeannie, but after all the loving I had given her, she began to grow weak. First, her hair  came unglued from her head, and my brother joked that she looked as though she had removed the coon skin cap that had once graced her head. I did not take too kindly to his irreverent commentary even though in retrospect it was somewhat funny. Her limbs were made of rubber and at some point a couple of her fingers fell from her hand. My mother suggested that Jeannie’s time with us was over, and one day when I came home from school, she was gone. 

My mother tried her best to substitute other dolls for Jeannie, but none of them were as wonderful as that Tiny Tears doll had been, so I grieved for her. She had been my “lovey,” a comforting presence much like stuffed animals are for some children. I can still remember dreaming the night away with her slumbering peacefully beside me. 

Many years passed, and my mother found another Tiny Tears doll at an antique store. She gave it to me as a surprise on my birthday. I was an adult by then so I was not going to play with the doll, but it touched my heart that my mom remembered how much Jeannie had meant to me. I kept the new doll perched on my dresser more as a kind of reminder of Jeannie and my mother’s thoughtfulness rather than a prized object. 

Over time even the new Tiny Tears doll began to deteriorate. Her rubber skin became sticky, and much like Jeannie pieces of her fingers broke off. I had to move her to my closet lest she damage my furniture. When I would see her on the shelf she looked so forlorn, as though time had taken its toll on her. I kept her until after my mother died, and then I guiltily tossed her into the trash. By then just touching her caused cracks in her limbs, and she stuck to everything. 

The only stuffed animal that I ever enjoyed was a great big teddy bear from my Uncle Andrew. He was hardly a cuddly creature. Instead, I used him to have bear fights with my brothers. We had many a jolly row with our three bears. We’d take those critters by the legs and pound each other over the head. it was great fun that brought lots of laughs from all of us. 

According to my mother I was never attached to a favorite blanket either, only Jeannie. although I have come to see all objects as expendable, I do still think of Jeannie and wish she had held up so that I might show her to my daughters and granddaughter. I can’t explain why she brought me so much joy, but she did. 

I would have many dolls that were much more beautiful than Jeannie, and while I liked them, they never held a candle to her. it’s funny how we attach ourselves to certain things, often for no real reason. Perhaps I was just at the age when I was transitioning from toddler to young child, and Jeannie was my companion in that phase of life. I was reaching the time when I would begin venturing away from my parents for many hours at a time rather than being tied to them all day long. Jeannie made it easier to do those sometimes frightening things. 

I hear many different tales of special stuffed animals or toys that people loved as children. For one of my daughters it was a yellow blanket that became frayed and filled with holes before she was finally willing to leave it in a corner and never look back again. She gave it up for a little stuffed dog called Le Mutt that she has to this very day. The story of Le Mutt is the story of her childhood, including friendships, vacation trips, and illnesses. My eldest daughter had a teddy bear, but like me with Jeannie, she gave him away when his seams began to come apart and his fur became bare. 

Our “loveys” are wonderful, at least I know mine was. All I have are memories now, and that is more than enough. Sometimes I can go into my mind and see Jeannie in all her glory keeping me company and entertaining me for hours. She was not real but, for a time, she was my friend. 

This is a story of a family. It began with two people who fell in love having little idea of the tragedies that would befall them, and the courage and faith they would need to triumph over every challenge. It is a quiet adventure, a battle against the  unseen monsters of mental illness. It is also story of the goodness in people who always seem to appear to help just in time. It is about a little bit of living and a whole lot of love. 

My book is complete. I have doted over it for far too long. Like a child leaving the nest, I must let it got for better or worse. I have edited and re-edited, questioned how my words will sound to others. I can only hope that interpretations of my story will be fair and understanding, but I know from experience that in sharing such a profoundly personal part of my life I will have critics. The written word has been misinterpreted since the beginning of time. Two people reading the exact same tract often see its message quite differently. The more controversial the topic, the more likely for misunderstandings will occur. There are few subjects more volatile than mental illness. 

My book, A Little Bit of Living, is a three part tragedy in the style of those written by the Greeks. It differs in that my family was not defeated by the events that tested us. Even as we made mistakes, we found ways to deal with whatever hand came our way. We were guided by the wisdom and compassion of family and friends. Always at the center of our journey was our mother, a beautiful and gifted soul, who dedicated her life to our safety and security. In turn, we would become her caretakers whenever bipolar disorder stole away her joy and her loving personality. 

We had to learn how to navigate a system that sometimes appears to care little for the needs of those afflicted with mental disorders. We became all too aware of the myths surrounding mental illness and the shame too associated with it. We watched our gregarious mother fighting to maintain her independence while also attempting to hide her illness. Somehow in spite of the missteps and angst we not only survived, but grew stronger.

I have found someone who will help me design a cover for the book and I plan to spend the coming weeks learning how to format and upload my work onto several ebook platforms. My hope is that I won’t suddenly become worried about how people will respond to my writing and will instead soldier forward and get this project finally completed. I no longer imagine that I will become a best selling author, or that I will make vast sums of money selling my work. My only goal now is to help those who struggle with mental illness, whether for themselves or a family member. I hope that after reading my book they will understand that they are not alone. 

It is well past time for us to have open and honest discussions about the effects of mental illness on all societies. It is time to take the treatment of this debilitating illness seriously. Mental illness lies at the foundation of so many of our problems, and yet we all but ignore it as though it should still be hidden in attics and basements. It is caused by physical abnormalities in the brain that we still do not fully understand, but unlocking those causes should become a priority for us all. 

In the not so long ago humans were superstitious about mental disorders. Individuals unlucky enough to have such afflictions were often deemed to be witches or demons. Our history is filled with stories of unneeded and unwanted suffering for those whose minds all too suddenly ceased to work properly. We have much to learn. We would do well to finally focus our attention and our efforts on unlocking the secrets of sound mental health. My upcoming book is a small step in bringing a human face to the process.

I applaud people like Glenn Close, Oprah Winfree and Prince Harry for striving to make us all aware of the tragic costs of mental illness. I want to join in their campaign in my small way. Be ready to read A Little Bit of Living by the end of this year. I’m going to really make it happen this time. 

By the way, I decided on the title for my book when I was cleaning and organizing one of my bookcases. I found an old notebook that had belonged to my mother. She had written some poems and a few thoughts in it. Then she mentioned that she wanted to write her autobiography, and she called it A Little Bit of Living. Somehow, it felt as though she was giving me permission to reveal our journey, and her title seemed exactly right.