Category: Commentary

I come from adventurous stock. My maternal grandparents traveled across the ocean from Slovakia just before the outbreak of World War II. They came one by one with my grandfather being the first to land in Galveston, Texas as an immigrant with a plan for improving his lot and that of his future family. My paternal grandparents moved all over the United States wherever my grandfather found work as a finishing carpenter. My father grew to love the idea of traveling, not just on vacations but in life. Just before he died we had taken a journey to California in the area that eventually would become Silicon Valley in the hopes of living in what he considered to be one of the most beautiful parts of the United States. 

None of that was to be for me. The job that lured my father a thousand miles away from my birthplace of Houston, Texas was a bust. Before long he left it and took us all on an odyssey through Los Angeles and points along the way to Corpus Christi, Texas and finally back to Houston as he attempted to find new employment. It was obvious that he longed to be someplace other than Houston but he had no luck in any of the towns where we stopped just long enough for him to realize that there were no opportunities matching his skills. When the family savings ran out he grabbed an offer to work again in Houston and resignedly returned. The adventurous streak that had so defined my ancestors would come to an abrupt end. 

I was actually happy to be back with my extended family of aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and friends. I had even secretly prayed to God to return us to the simplicity and security of my birthplace. I had little idea that within weeks my father would be dead from a car accident and life for me and my brothers would take a far different turn than I had expected. My mother took us back to the neighborhood from which we had initially moved and there we settled into a simple life until each of us struck out on our own as adults. 

None of us ever moved too far away from the house where we grew up. We had walked to school and church and built a foundation for life in a place where our mother made us feel safe. Staying in one place became a symbol of security for me as I remembered the trauma of all of our moves that ended in such unexpected tragedy. My focus in life seemed to always be on sameness, routine. A routine way of living felt good and I had no desire to disrupt it. Thus I find myself at the age of seventy two in the same part of the world where I was born with no desire to move the way those who came before me did. From a psychological standpoint I think that leaving what I had known and loved only to return and see my father die scarred me and buried all of my risk taking inclinations. 

I am quite content with living a long life never too far from the hospital where I was born. Remarkably it’s still there but the house where my parents lived was razed many moons ago in true Houston fashion. Nothing seems to last for very long in this bustling city that probably should never even have existed in the first place. Houston is still all about real estate just as it was when the Allen brothers advertised in the late nineteenth century. It was a strange place to build a city with its ribbons of bayous and mosquito infested swampy areas. Neighboring Galveston located on a bay that feeds into the Gulf of Mexico was the economic dynamo of the eras but the citizens of Houston were dreamers with a plan that somehow did not seem so crazy when a massive hurricane virtually wiped out Galveston.

Houston pioneers dug a big channel that allowed huge ships to come from the Gulf to the shores of a landlocked city. Over time that port grew to be one of the busiest in the country in spite of the fact that it was not adjacent to a natural inlet. The city began to thrive as far sighted leaders brokered the convergence of railroad lines, built a world class university that would become known as the Harvard of the south, and planned for a medical center that would rival the best in the world. Texas oil and gas ended up in refineries near the ship channel and when World War II prompted the need for fuel the city began to grow by leaps and bounds. 

When I came along Houston did not yet have a million people but today the city and its surrounding suburbs is home to around four million souls of such diversity that there is no one dominant group in the area, at least when there is no gerrymandering to make it so for purposes of voting. It is a friendly place where everybody mostly gets along as we proved when hurricane Harvey flooded neighborhoods with equal opportunity. 

I still love Houston and while I have sometimes thought of living in a more beautiful place I always end up wanting to stay. Houston can be beautiful or ugly depending where you go. It is brutally hot and humid for most of the year. There really are no seasons here, no fall colors or snowy days, but spring and fall are spectacular in their own Houston ways. The threat of hurricanes and floods loom large and we tend to become anxious when it rains but we have some of the best food in all of the United States. Getting from one place to another can be trying and when we say that something is close by it may mean that we only have to drive for an hour. We have anything that a person might want except beautiful scenery but we can drive to Galveston for ocean views or to the hill country for rolling vistas. That medical center that enterprising civic leaders advocated long ago provides top notch healthcare and now there are multiple universities in the city educating students from all over the world. We are even the center of the human universe with NASA headquarters planning a stunning future in space.

Some might say that my brothers and I got stuck in Houston and surroundings but over time it became a wonderful choice. We’ve been able to travel the world for fun and then return to the easy going feel of a home town that has provided for all of our needs. Houston has its flaws like any other place. Nothing is ever really perfect. Overall though Houston is a great place to live with a kind of can do spirit even in the face of enormous challenges that keeps it moving forward in an adventurous kind of spirit. It’s my birthplace, my home and I love it. 

I attended a graduation at Texas A&M University recently. It was an abbreviated ceremony which actually worked out quite well, no long speeches from the Association of Former Students or politically leaning entities. The students were separated into groups of about 200 with eight guests each and the entire affair only lasted a tinge more than an hour. It was wonderful!

The interim president of the university was the main speaker and he walked a fine line down the middle road in his address. Of course he spoke of the bright future that each of the students will have in the world of computing but also alluded to the ethics needed for their work. Then he mentioned the divisiveness in our country today and expressed his hope that a unifying leader will one day emerge to bring us back together. He used the examples of John F, Kennedy and Ronald Reagan as models of the kind of electrifying individual who might unite us in the name of our country and one another. He hinted that such a person might even emerge from the ranks of the graduates. Sadly he remarked that our past year of unprecedented events should have been the catalyst for a national effort to work together and instead our differences seem to be more pronounced than ever. 

I found myself nodding away as he spoke and feeling the hint of sadness and disappointment in his words. He admitted to being seventy seven years old and hopeful that things will get better before he is no longer of this earth. He suggested that we start by setting aside our anger with members of our family with whom we differ and then reaching out to friends whose views deviate from our own. Perhaps if we can begin to have thoughtful conversations with one another a chain reaction cooperation will take hold even in Washington D.C.

I’d like to think that such a thing will eventually happen but I worry that it is still a long time coming. We seem unwilling to even listen to each other much less attempt to understand what those around us have to say. I suspect that only when “we the people” begin a process of legitimate healing, not by covering up problems but by admitting to their existence and working to solve them, will our nation be whole again. Our stubborn refusal to really hear the whys and wherefores of many views is a roadblock to progress forward. Continuing obstinance will only lead to more situations like people in Texas literally freezing in the dark and minorities feeling like outsiders in their own country. We have to be honest and know that it will not hurt us, but will make us stronger and more just. 

I sometimes think that right now one side is too generous with our taxes and the other is too cruelly stingy. We don’t want to disincentivize Americans from working but we also do not want to assume that those who need a helping hand are by nature lazy. The truth is that some people will unfairly take advantage of overly kind hearts while others are quietly suffering in a society that often looks away from problems rather than constructively addressing them. We have begun to debate too many issues with soundbites and platitudes rather than thinking outside of the box. We do not have to do things the way we always have. It is possible to make positive change without losing the essence of our democratic republic. 

Many thought that the introduction of Social Security was a first step toward communism. While the program is terribly imperfect, it along with Medicare have improved the lives of elderly in myriad ways. So too has the Affordable Care Act made it possible for more Americans to get the medical help that they and their families need. Both were positive steps to a more humane nation but perhaps with some tweaking here and there we can make the programs even more productive and worthy of our taxes. 

As the Texas A&M interim president suggested we can all do better and our efforts should begin with an unwillingness to spread false information. An educated electorate needs to check sources and seek truth no matter where it may lead. This is what we learn in our schooling and this is how we should be approaching the decision making that affects us all. If something sounds too much like a slogan then it would behoove us to do some honest research before we just fall in line with any group or individual. 

I like that our young people are being challenged to think critically and to seek truth. Too many today are behaving like lemmings rather than individuals. There is something wrong when entire swaths of a party sound exactly the same. We need to be able to discuss hypothetical ideas without getting personal or feeling angry or insulted. That is the way forward. We should all graduate to a higher level of thinking. 

Each year for sixty four years I have faced the anniversary of my father’s untimely death in 1957 that so drastically changed life for me and my mother and brothers. I remember that morning as vividly as my wedding day and the birth of my daughters. What should have been a sunny holiday spent at the beach with my cousins turned into a nightmare as soon as I arose from my sleep and heard my mom talking with someone on the phone using the past tense when she spoke of my father. I did not have to hear the horrible news from my aunt when I found her in our kitchen puttering away her nervousness. Even at the age of eight I had an intuitive nature and already understood that an earth shattering event had occurred. 

My mother had always been as steady as a rock and as delightfully happy as anyone I ever knew. On that day she was so bereft that she could hardly pull herself from her bed and she uncharacteristically left the care of me and my brothers to her siblings who quickly began to gather in our living room. As I quietly assessed the situation I somehow realized that I would have to rise to the occasion and muster a strength that I did not know I had to make sure that my mother and brothers would be okay. Psychologically I matured from eight to thirty in a single moment. I set aside the frivolities of childhood and adopted a seriousness that would mark the sense of responsibility that I was feeling. 

I suppose that my mother descended into a state of deep depression and perhaps even hopelessness that left her in a state of mind so unlike the person I had always known. It would be weeks before she would emerge from her tears and faraway looks. To say that it was frightening would be an understatement but somehow I understood how difficult the future looked to her and I felt confident that she would pull herself together, which she ultimately did. 

For the next ten years Mama returned to a revised version of her general optimism and courage. She kept us together and made a life without daddy feel safe and secure. She only had moments here and there when her emotions would spill over the top and feel out of control. Mostly she was our stalwart and source of unconditional love and wisdom. I was in awe of the woman she was and continued quietly being as trouble free for her as possible because I knew that she had more on her plate than most people would ever be able to handle. 

When I was in my first year of college my mother began to behave in ways so unlike herself. She experienced more and more periods of depression that would last for a couple of days and then seemingly go away. Her temper would sometimes flare up unexpectedly and in cruel ways that I had never before seen. She was a kind and loving person and her outbursts frightened me. She also developed irrational fears that I tried to laugh away but when I saw her clinging to them I worried that something was more amiss than just a roller coaster of emotions. 

Eventually Mama would have a complete mental breakdown. She closed the windows tightly, drew the blinds and drapes and locked herself into her darkened bedroom even as the temperature soared in the unairconditioned house. She cried constantly and with eyes darting like an animal running for its life from a predator she would speak of being watched by law enforcement for some unknown crime. She even believed that her sisters who came to help her were attempting to poison her. When she watched television she heard messages from the programs that were not part of the script. I was terrified. 

I learned that my mother had a mental illness that would stalk her for the next forty years. When she was sick, which was several times each year, our roles would reverse. I would be her caretaker and she would be like my confused child. It would take years before we had an accurate diagnosis of her condition which was bipolar disorder. 

With great regularity, usually in March, July and October my mother would travel through a cycle of emotions brought on by her illness. Almost always her symptoms began with sadness that prompted unending tears and isolation from the world. If I was able to convince her to see her doctor quickly enough the worst effects would never happen but when she was adamant that nothing was wrong and refused medical help she would descend into an emotional hell. the next phase was mania and that is when she became most unrecognizable. She talked constantly, often spewing vile anger and insults. She was unable to sleep and her the thoughts that raced through her head were filled with paranoid ideation. Eventually she would experience a psychotic break entirely. 

It was alway painful to see her that way. It felt so unfair that such a brilliant, wise, stalwart, and compassionate woman would be laid so low by some chemical flaw inside her brain. My brothers and I worried constantly that she would get herself into trouble but somehow she was blessed to have neighbors and coworkers who watched over her and alerted us whenever they saw signs of her mental illness rearing its ugly head. 

I always loved the interludes during which my mother was herself again. They were like a precious gift that I knew we had to enjoy with gusto because the never ending cycle of her bipolar disorder would inevitably return again and again to steal away her beautiful soul and replace it with a tortured turn of the mind. 

I still advocate for the mentally ill but realize that they are often relegated to neglect in favor of other more understandable problems in our world. There is still so much to be learned about how the brain works and why is sometimes goes awry. The suffering that good people endure along with their families leaves them misunderstood and sidelined from the roles that they might otherwise have enjoyed. We have such a long way to go in our knowledge and compassion and investment in time and money for mental illness. I truly believe that if we were to pour as much effort into understanding why a beautiful mind can become so infected we would actually solve many of the world’s problems. I suspect that much of the negative behavior that we witness is actually the result of a mental defect that might easily be repaired just as we do with hearts. Helping people who struggle with psychological issues will be my goal as long as I have breath to spread the word about their needs. A mind really is a terrible thing to waste and right now we condemn far too many to the dumpster. It’s long past time for finding real and lasting solutions for diseases of the brain.

I have a wonderful memory from my childhood. It is the sound of one of our neighbors practicing on her clarinet. Back then few people had air conditioning so everyone kept their windows open allowing the noises of life in each household to reverberate through the neighborhood. The young lady was a several years older than I was and a member of her high school marching band at the local public school. She was rather good and I looked forward to hearing the melodious tones of her instrument each evening as she became more and more adept in her performances over time. I can almost still hear her even as more than sixty years have passed.

I went to wonderful parochial schools were I received a top notch education but music was sadly rather lacking. In junior high I was a member of a choir and we learned the rudiments of reading music, but mostly we just sang from a rote memorization of our parts. In high school I was placed on a track that precluded artistic electives. Instead my schedule was filled with extra languages, sciences, and mathematics. While I appreciate all of the knowledge that I gained in those years my one regret is that I did not have the opportunity to learn how to play an instrument. In fact the school did not have either a band or an orchestra. 

Creating bands and orchestras is an expensive venture even if the students rent their instruments. It involves a major investment in teachers, assistants, sound systems, music, acoustically designed rooms. My school had to choose between state of the art science rooms and what the powers that be saw as the frivolousness of music equipment. I suppose they wisely chose science but to this very day I wish that I had received an opportunity to learn how to play a clarinet or a piano or maybe a cello or violin. 

Some of my classmates took private music lessons but I was a “scholarship” student who earned my tuition by excelling in my classes. I was a kind of investment in the future for my school and music was not on the menu. Thus I only dreamed of having the skills to create lovely sounds like my neighbor did.

When I was studying to be a teacher I had to take a basic music class. We all had to purchase a recorder and learn how to play a few songs. I became quite adept at performing “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” and other ditties but that did not satisfy my longing to be a real musician. In the same class we had to master “Three Blind Mice” on a keyboard but my short stubby fingers struggled to reach between the keys. I would later learn that a truly talented music teacher knows how to find just the right instrument for each person. 

My eldest daughter signed up for band classes in intermediate school. She wanted to play the flute but was never able to get a single sound from that instrument. Instead she had a knack with the oboe and worked to master that instrument for three years. Because I had such a longing to play I invested in private lessons for her and hundreds of dollars in replacing broken reeds. The oboe was a difficult instrument but she slowly progressed and then found that if she continued with it in high school she would have to play with the percussion students during marching seasons. Because she was a talented dancer she chose instead to join the dance team and left her music behind. 

I became obsessed with the fact that nobody in my direct family actually played an instrument. My husband did bit on the guitar and my mother-in-law was somewhat accomplished on the piano but nobody actually excelled like that neighbor of my long ago. I longed to hear real talent from one of my own. I had a paternal cousin who made the keys on a piano sing like angels so I felt certain that somewhere in the complexities of genetics there had to be some DNA that would lead to great musical talent in my offspring and their descendents. 

Soon I had grandchildren and one by one they all chose to join the band in middle school with varying interest in continuing through high school. From those seven four became somewhat accomplished. Grandson Jack played multiple instruments from his time in band including brass, piano and guitar but he, like his mother, chose to follow a different artistic route in high school. Benjamin became a tuba player and enjoyed it so much that he stayed for the full band experience in high school where he ultimately became the Drum Major. Ian chose the cello and with each passing year he became more and more adept. He has a passion for music that shows in his incredible performances. He plays like an archangel. William is a violinist but he does not share the enthusiasm of Jack, Ben and Ian. Nonetheless I am overjoyed that some of my fold have so beautifully mastered the art of music. Finally the kind of beautiful sounds of my youth are being reproduced by my grandsons. 

If I had the opportunity to learn one more thing it would be to master an instrument. It would not matter to me what that might be. It would simply be wonderful to be able to sing to the heavens with my skill. As an educator I believe in providing all students regardless of income with a chance to play an instrument. I don’t really believe that an education is complete without at least a rudimentary introduction to such a competency We should all experience moments of rising heavenward with our music like my neighbor did with her clarinet. It is perhaps the most gloriously creative act that humans may do. The sound of music raises us all from the commonplace into the domain of angels.

Thoreau went to Walden Pond to escape the world as it was and create the world of his mind. Arthur C. Clarke dreamed of an incredible future and then went to an island to make it come true, at least for him. It is in our natures as humans to muse upon utopian worlds, Garden of Eden style societies in which conflict and want are no more. Unfortunately one man’s utopia is another’s prison. It’s unlikely that we would ever be able to agree on what constitutes heaven on earth much less actually build it. Adam and Eve proved that as have countless groups like the pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock. 

Somehow it is in our natures to disagree. From a religious standpoint we hark back to the first man and woman to see how temptations even in the presence of what should be perfect contentment sway us to stray from the path of perfection. From a strictly psychological and genetic point of view we see that our upbringings, cultures, backgrounds have a profound effect on our perspectives and thus make it almost impossible to find a universal common ground. Not even cults last forever and sometimes they lead to even more destruction than existed before. 

If I were to describe my own utopia it would be quite personal and much like Thoreau’s isolated existence far from most of society. It would be a temporary form of solace because I am realistic enough to know that I would still have to venture out into the world as it is. My utopia would be a haven, a retreat, but not a transformation of all of the world.

In my utopia nature would hold a commanding place. Trees, flowers, birds and all sorts of creatures would live in peaceful coexistence with me and those who choose to go with me. Our setting would be tranquil and free of noise and irritations. Our lifestyle would be simple, quiet, deliberate. There would be no rushing from one appointment to another, no sitting in traffic. I would not be consumed with worrisome thoughts or anxieties about how to get things done. There would be no need for such attitudes because the pace of life would allow us to continually pause to feel our connections with each other and the universe. 

Of course there would have to be access to books and learning. I would spend a great deal of time increasing my knowledge and best of all having Socratic-like discussions without rancor or preconceived arguments with my fellow utopians. We would feed on each other’s ideas, parsing them for truth and understanding. There would be no competitions, only the pure joy of expanding our minds and our tolerance for differences. Ours would be a peaceful place devoid of jealousies. There would be an easy going harmony with each other and with nature.

My utopia would bring good health to everyone who lives there. Our doctors would find ways to eliminate horrific diseases and pain. We would exercise our bodies as well as our minds and eat the healthy bounty of unprocessed foods. Caring for our lovely surroundings as well as ourselves would be a community project and another avenue for bringing us together. More importantly there would be peace and joy and equality. Each person would be a treasure and know that he/she is loved unconditionally. There would be no want going unmet or unjust treatment being accepted. 

Of course I sound naive just describing my utopia. I may as well suggest that there will be rainbows everyday, ice cream covered mountains, and unicorns roaming on our lawns. There is a reason why humans dream of a perfect society but never achieve it. Indeed we are flawed and those flaws lead us to bickering and anger and turn us into green eyed monsters begrudging the good fortune of others. Trying to bring all of our points of view together has never been accomplished and taming the dark side of human nature has never been fully achieved. I suppose that many would not even like my ideas for a utopia. To them my perfect world would be a kind of hell. Thus it is and thus it has always been. 

We have managed to tame our wild spirits with education, peaceful philosophies and certain forms of government but we have yet to be fully successful. A true utopia would not need guns or police or soldiers because we would not fight with one another nor hurt one another. We would be as loving as Jesus was and we would not have hung him on a cross for having ideas that frightened us. 

I dream about a perfect world because I think that it is possible to improve the one we have bit by bit. It’s somewhat difficult to see that right now because of the sickness, divisiveness, injustice, suffering, wars and evil that seem to surround us throughout the world. Still, I find places where it feels pretty darn close to heaven right here on earth. I still believe that when all is said and done most of us are very very good. We are moving in the right direction and I think I can see a slice of utopia way up ahead.