Category: Commentary

In ancient Greece (which was not yet known as Greece) the Athenian government provided patronage to the theater using taxes to pay writers, actors and directors. The leaders encouraged citizens to attend plays, particularly tragedies. The thinking was that such productions were cathartic, a means of forcing emotions and even tears to the surface. The beliefs was that in becoming engrossed in tragic stories and reacting to them the members of the audience eliminated some of the toxins that were lurking in their bodies making them sick. Crying was viewed as a healthy reaction and a release of the poisonous effects of life’s everyday stresses. 

All across the globe this has been a most difficult year. We feel a sense of loss and grief. In our country alone over half a million people have died from COVID 19 and the toll continues from week to week. Even if we do not personally know someone who is part of this horrific statistic we feel the sorrow of those who have said goodbye to loved ones in the most unexpected of ways. Death is never easy to endure. It scars our hearts and reminds us of our own vulnerabilities. In this year it somehow seems more horrific than ever.

People we know have been sick. Many have lost their jobs and have searched for months unsuccessfully for new work. We hear of individuals and families who are living on an economic edge, frightened of being evicted, having to depend on the kindness of friends or family or strangers. In the midst of our global pandemic we have witnessed political unrest and upheaval, a time of almost unparalleled historical division unless we look to civil wars. Friends and family members are still becoming ill with things other than COVID and some of them are dying as well. Our rituals and traditions have temporarily become shells of themselves as we cope with isolation from one another. So little feels normal or natural. The very gatherings that so often brought us respite from the trials of daily life are not available. 

Grief, loss, sorrow have created a spate of violence. Suicides are on the rise. We are struggling to cope with emotions that are making us sick but instead of acknowledging them we are more likely to attempt to be stoic and optimistic, to ignore the reality of our feelings. Psychologists tells us that we might be better served to take a bit of advice from the Athenians and allow ourselves to release the poisons of our minds in a cathartic rush of tears. Instead of running away from how we are feeling we should instead embrace the reality of our genuine fears and anger and sorrow. Facing the tragedy of the moment and expelling our pent up reactions to this year of living so unnaturally is good for our souls, a panacea for our sorrow. 

Optimism is a good thing but it does not have to deny reality nor be devoid of moments when we allow ourselves to cry. We are bound to feel weary, hurt, overwhelmed because we are human. Running away from our feelings in an effort to remain continually happy is a fruitless and destructive effort. Facing our emotions, freeing them from our bodies, giving ourselves time to heal and then moving forward is a more potent form of optimism. 

It is important that we be aware both of our own grief and that of those around us. So often we become anxious around sorrow or depression and try to talk people out of their emotions rather than simply supporting them as they struggle to return to a state of happiness. Whether someone is venting anger or disappointment or defeat we should be willing to provide understanding hearts. We would not look away from someone bleeding on the street but so often we ignore emotional cries for help. We tell the one who is hurting to get a grip or to pray to God when their state of mind is far too muddled to find an easy way out of darkness. When we deny depression or anxiety as a weakness rather than a medical condition we denigrate the reality of human struggle. 

It is tempting to look at someone whose life appears to be perfection and believe that all is well. We may even envy that person, but experience has shown us that even a highly successful and hilariously funny person like Robin Williams may be slowly dying from a depression so dark that it eats away at the soul. We may turn away from an angry individual who seems to have little pity for anyone else. We may think of this person as selfish and uncaring when he or she may in fact be hurting intensely. The cause of ugly effects is often derived from deep seated abuse, absence of love, and longing for acceptance. 

This year has not just been a medical nightmare but also an emotional horror. It should be okay for any of us to admit to the sorrows we are feeling. Tears should be viewed as a good way to release our toxins. We are complex beings who bring a lifetime of experiences and beliefs to this crisis. The vast majority of us want nothing more than to stop the pain that seems so rampant. Our way forward is to be found in kindness, empathy, honesty, acceptance of our differences and our truths. Our individual fears are very real and should never become the butt of ridicule or disdain. 

This can become a year of hopefulness as long as we understand that our shared and individual problems will not miraculously go away. It is in how we choose to handle them together that we will find the comfort and security that we seek. It is in embracing one another and shedding our collective tears that we will find the light of happiness for which we long. We have a great deal of work to do if we are to reach that point. We might begin by facing our own grief and then turning to those around us.

I spent my college years analyzing words, what they mean in different contexts, how stringing them together creates new meanings. I studied literature from different languages and cultures and learned that a simple concept like snow might have hundreds of different descriptors. I literally decomposed sentences breaking them down into their most basic parts. I demonstrated that linguistically the same language may sound very different and still be valid and bound by rules. Words are powerful but so often the meaning that we intend them to have is lost in translations colored by perceptions and experiences. We find ourselves proclaiming like J. Alfred Prufrock, “That is not what I meant at all!”

Authors often laugh at the misinterpretations of their writing. As humans we sometimes associate meanings and feelings to both the written and spoken words that are more likely to represent ourselves than the person who first uttered the phrases on paper or in person. Our understanding of what we think we see or hear can vary widely from the same set of words. We bring a lifetime of personal observations to every conversation or reading and overlay our own thinking on the thoughts of others. 

I often think back to a Shakespeare class that I took while studying at the university. We were having a lively discussion of Romeo and Juliet that twisted and turned as different students revealed their interpretations of what they believed the story was really meant to convey. The theories were so wild that I wondered if I had actually read the same play as some of my peers. The differing viewpoints made me realize how many layers of significance the same words may convey. 

I find that we are more and more at odds with one another as the opportunities for communication grow. The confined spaces of a tweet or a Facebook or Instagram post force us to explain our thinking in minimalist fashion. We leave out so much of what is actually on our minds that those reading our comments are in a sense forced to interpret what we are actually attempting to say. They respond according to their own worldview and often send the discussion in a direction that was never intended and making false assumptions about the person who originated the statement. Sides are taken in arguments that should never have happened. Friendships are tarnished. We try to explain and with each word seem to be digging deeper and deeper holes. It is as though we are in some nightmare version of the Tower of Babel where everyone is talking but nobody understands what is being said. 

So many people feel silenced these days. They are reluctant to say anything lest their commentaries be grossly misinterpreted. Even the most innocent sounding sentences can lead to angry retorts and so we drawn back inside ourselves and only speak to those whom we most trust, the people who have been loyal to us over the years. Sometimes a single expression of frustration can even tip the scales of friendships that we thought to be solid. Our attempts to mend the confusion and set things straight are not enough to take away hurts that were never intended. Words can purposely kill but they can also do so without intent. 

One of the best pieces of advice I have ever heard is to react to what we hear and read by assuming the best. When words appear to be angry or hurtful or insulting first find out exactly what the person was trying to say. Learn about the context that prompted an individual to say something that seems egregious. Instead of arguing or debating attempt to discern what is behind a person’s words. Clarify misunderstandings rather than making assumptions. Read and listen critically rather than combatively. 

I write every single day and then I make my words public. I have touched people’s hearts and with the very same words made some so angry with me that they have severed our relationships. I try to be honest and open and to admit that neither I nor anyone else has all the answers to life’s challenges. I simply observe that most of us are trying very hard to be good people, to do the right thing. Sometimes we falter. Sometimes our flaws overcome us. Sometimes we become so buried in our emotions that we are no longer able to see clearly. In those moments if we are fortunate those around us will be forgiving and understanding. They will overlook our weaknesses and seek to understand who we are and what we are trying to say rather than turning their backs on us in anger if we sound rude or hateful. They will assume the best just as we all should attempt to do. 

Each time I post a blog I know that someone will see something in my words that I never even thought to imply. When I write a comment on Facebook I may unintentionally hurt someone. It is the way of words. Only when someone continually hurts with words can we deduce that they meant to do so. Only when someone constantly lies can we assume that they are not worthy of our trust. In most cases if someone’s words surprise us it is because we have misunderstood what they were attempting to convey. In those times our goal should be to set the record straight by learning the truth of the situation. We can do that as long as we understand the complexity of words and how easy it is to misconstrue them. 

I did not have my ears pierced until I was in my forties. I have an aversion to needles and I remembered watching brave souls getting piercings at slumber parties in a ritual that appeared brutal to me. The process involved numbing the lobe with ice and then sterilizing a needle over the flame of a gas stove. With a wine cork to steady the maneuver the needle pierced the skin of the ear lobe and pulled through a loop of thread that was tied into a circle. The brave soul willing to risk such a process would then move the string back and forth during the healing process to keep the hole open while also applying alcohol to both sanitize and dry the wound. 

Needless to say I was a willing witness to such torture but there was no way that I was going to become the victim of the barbarism that it appeared to be. Later I watched our family doctor pierce the ears of patients in a much more sterile manner. Even then I found the process too unappealing to risk. It was only when someone had invented a kind of staple gun for the ears that created a perfect hole into which a gold post was placed that I found the courage to prepare my ears for freedom from the old school earrings that always pinched my lobes. It proved to be easy and pain free and a wonderful decision that I probably would never have made without the urgings of my friend, Pat.

That is the extent of my willingness to create a permanent hole in my body. When I see men and women with multiple piercings on their ears, their lips, their tongues, their noses, their navels, and some very sensitive areas my needle phobia causes me to become rather dizzy. In truth I also find many of those choices to be unattractive, especially the ones on facial features. Of course being a rather open minded person I feel that deciding whether or not to do such things is a matter of personal taste. I just get a bit weirded out when they become excessive and I wonder what leads to a kind of addiction to creating holes to sport so much body jewelry. 

I have never had a tattoo. I once asked someone who had endured the steps of getting that form of body art if it involved any pain. She admitted that it hurt a bit and that was enough for me to vow that I would never engage in such a process. If I ever did garner the courage I would be rather circumspect. Mine would be some tiny image on my ankle or the inside of my wrist. It would have to be something very meaningful and personal but never a name or anything large enough to see from a distance. 

I can’t imagine getting a tattoo on my face. I see beautiful young people whose countenances are covered with ink and again I wonder what has driven them to hide under all of the images. It’s something I do not understand when I see someone whose entire body is like a walking canvas. I suppose that it might be considered beautiful by some but I see it as a kind of self destructive behavior like drinking too much, or taking drugs, or spending money recklessly. The compulsion to to anything in excess never quite squares with me. 

I once had a conference with a parent who had only recently been freed from prison. He was a nice man who was genuinely concerned about his son. He was remorseful for the crimes he had committed and the difficulties that his actions had created for his family. He wanted to be a better person and show his son how to live well. I sat in front of this contrite soul looking into a face dotted with tattooed tears. His arms were covered with tattooed expletives and gang symbols. He spoke of the regrets he had and I wondered if emblazoning his body with designs from a lifestyle he was hoping to leave was one of the things that he wished he had not done. I guessed that they made his reentry into society more difficult. 

As this man was leaving the conference we saw his son with a group of boys whose reputations were far from sterling. The father spoke to the group commanding them all to behave, work hard, study, do the right thing and be respectful to me. While I appreciated his advice I had no idea how much it would change those students. They became like choir boys in my class and began excelling academically and behaviorally. When I thanked one of them for the extraordinary change he explained that the tattooed tears on the father’s face had told them all he needed to know. “He killed or hurt people, Miss,” the boy explained. “Those tattoos showed us how many people he had put down when they messed with him. We have to be good or he will come after us.”

I never knew whether or not my once recalcitrant students were correct in their assessment of the situation but it lead me to a better understanding of the messages that our choices sometimes present. I have never been flamboyant and like to melt into a crowd so I keep my body decorating simple. I see how we present ourselves as a kind of art and in that regard we each prefer different styles. I’m fine with the two little holes in my ears. More power to anyone who wants more but lots of body art is not my thing.

I have a reputation for being rather fastidious when it comes to the state of my home. I do like the idea of every object having its own place but there is more because of my attention deficit disorder than an obsession with cleanliness. If I cannot find something that I typically use my brain goes haywire so I literally have practices of storing my shoes in a certain part of my closet and keeping items organized exactly the same way all of the time. I adhere to these rituals to keep from coming unglued. I cannot survive in a chaotic mess because my brain literally goes bananas in such an environment. 

I also have a fetish for clean bathrooms and countertops. My senses cannot bear foul smells or sticky surfaces. I purchase disinfecting cleaners by the gallon. I will ignore a weeks long thick layer of dust but I wipe down the surfaces of my kitchen and bathrooms constantly. I alone boost the stock of Lysol as I chase down odors and fight to keep my home smelling clean and fresh. 

I’m also a bed maker mostly because I prefer preparing for sleep on smoothed out sheets. I don’t like crawling into a rumpled mess and having to pull and tug to get my share of the blankets. Instead I want to feel the luxury of plumped up pillows and inviting linens. I religiously make my bed each morning in preparation of falling into it at night. It just feels better to me than trying to straighten things out when I am weary and ready to slumber. 

I rarely wear shoes when I am inside my home and so I also enjoy a clean floor. I don’t want my soles sticking to the ground or gathering dirt. I sweep and mop frequently to have a sense that I can enjoy my home naturally, organically without worrying about what might be fouling my feet. So I keep my floors almost as clean as my countertops.

Beyond that I am mostly unconcerned about housekeeping. I have a junk drawer filled with items that I rarely use that could use a bit of organizing but I can’t seem to muster enough interest to do so. There is a closet under my stairs that is a catchall for odd objects that I might need once in a blue moon. We call it the velociraptor closet because there is no telling what may attack upon entry. It’s a great place to throw things if surprise guests announce that they are coming in a few minutes. Once something gets placed in there it may languish for years without notice until it becomes impossible to cram in one more thing and a bit of organizing is required.

My windows and blinds could certainly use more good cleanings but I am the original “I don’t do windows” woman. It’s a task my mother gave me when I was young and I detest it to this very day. About once a year I take the time to wipe down every inch of glass and dust each slat of the wooden blinds but the rest of the time I ignore the build up and dream of getting shades like my niece that clean quickly with a big swipe, or even better hiring a maid to come do the work that I abhor. 

I once tutored a young woman in her lovely home. She came from a very successful family. Both her mother and father spent long hours at work and did well enough in their chosen professions that they were able to hire people to do the tasks that my husband and I have always done. They had a housekeeper who came every single day. She engaged in a routine series of tasks that she repeated over and over again to keep the home in pristine condition. She told me that she dusted furniture and vacuumed floors every single day. She tidied bathrooms and the kitchen on a regular basis as well. Then she rotated the jobs of cleaning windows and blinds and washing clothes and linens. She loved her work and spoke of how generous her employers were but admitted that she was rather lax about keeping her own home in order. 

I remember the full time housewives of old who followed regular routines of cleanliness because they thought of keeping homes tidy as their jobs. Most of the houses I entered were kept in order by the mothers who balanced hundreds of tasks with caring for their children. Some were so fastidious that they even ironed the sheets that went on the beds. They repeated a weekly, monthly, seasonal and yearly menu of housekeeping duties that made their homes orderly and attractive. My mother was among them and as I grew older she assigned many of the jobs to me. I learned the art of cleaning a toilet properly at a very young age and I did it right lest I fail an inspection by my mom.

There came a time when my mother relaxed her routines to the point of being messy. She no longer minded having objects scattered on tables or the floor. Her sink was often filled with dishes waiting to be washed. She ignored thick layers of dust on her tables. She chose instead to read her books or get in her car on a sunny day and drive to see the ocean. Her priorities had changed and she felt perfectly comfortable in the chaos because things no longer mattered to her. 

I suppose that I will never be able to operate without some order and design in my home but I do smile when I go to a home that shows definite signs of people actually living there. I enjoy those whose priorities seem to be in the right place, people who are more concerned with enjoying life than spending hours repeating the same tasks over and over again. Still, I have my own bare minimum of needs when it comes to cleanliness in my home and I’ve learned how to get those things done without allowing the work to overtake my life. My bed will be made. My counters and floors will not be sticky and my toilet will still pass inspection. Just don’t look inside my closets or those extra rooms. You may be in for a shock.

I once worked for a fantastic principal who created innovative and supportive programs for his students and faculty. He often defended teachers from crazy parents, taking their abuse so that the educators endure them. He never looked for praise or credit for the things he did. His low key humility often backfired on him. Others took credit for his hard work. People wondered what he was actually doing and I once told him that he needed to learn how to toot his own horn. It was a mode that he was never able to master because his rationale for everything that he did was to be a champion for whatever his school needed, not to bring glory to himself. I applaud and admire him for being so modest but I sometimes feel angry that lesser persons than he is garner adulation.

I despise snobbish, braggarts. I find myself recoiling from anyone who feels the need to demonstrate superiority over others. I can’t stand people who take the air out a room with their pretentiousness. I suppose that my feelings come from my mother who continually reminded me that each of us is talented and capable of greatness. Sometimes the only difference between someone who is highly successful and someone who seems ordinary is money and influence. She pointed out that being born into a family that provides one with access to an Ivy League education and powerful people does not make one more valuable than others, just lucky. 

My mother was a big fan of Queen Elizabeth. She admired her as a wonderful woman and often commented that she would have enjoyed having tea with her Majesty. Nonetheless, Mama insisted that she would never have been willing to bow or curtsey to the monarch because she saw herself as the Queen’s equal in every way other than the differences in their births. My mom was the daughter of a poor laborer. The Queen was destined to be the head of state in the British Commonwealth as the daughter of a king. My mother felt that such privilege did not give royalty the right to feel better than their lowliest fellow citizen. 

My mother always told me to hold my head up high and never be cowed by anyone because nobody’s worth should be any better or worse than mine. She felt as comfortable talking one on one with a doctor as with someone who cleaned offices. In fact, her own father had mopped up the blood and muck in a meat packing plant but his glory in her mind lay in his willingness to work hard for his family. She told me how he wore a suit to his job each day and changed into coveralls to do the dirty work of his employment. Mama said that his occupation did not define his status because he was so much more than the seemingly menial job that he did. In fact, she insisted that he was as essential to the running of the world as the king had been.

For that reason, like my boss, I eschew snobbery or boastfulness as much as possible but I do have some prideful times. I know that I have a facility with mathematics that not everyone enjoys. Solving problems does not come as naturally to me as it does to my brother but I tend to learn quickly and even when something is challenging I only have to exert a bit of extra effort to figure things out. I feel good knowing that I have that talent but it is not something about which I choose to gloat. Instead I have spent most of my life attempting to unravel the mysteries of mathematics for others. I have learned that everyone is capable of becoming astute at calculations. It just takes some longer than others to gain the confidence and skills that they need. I can be grateful that I am able to learn mathematics fairly easily but I do not need to be overly proud of that gift. 

I find that many of the problems that we face in life come from snobbery of one sort or another. There are those who live behind fences in grand style with riches beyond anything most of us have the power to imagine. They certainly have a right to feel secure and to select with whom they have interactions but there is no reason for them to consider themselves to be above the rest of us. 

My daughter once worked for a wealthy family that lived in the most sought after neighborhood in Houston. She was one of the family’s personal accountants. She kept track of expenses and payments for their travels, clothing and personal lifestyles. Part of her job required her to go to the house to deliver or pick up bills, receipts and to provide updates. My daughter had degrees in Finance and Accounting from prestigious universities for which she had worked very hard and yet whenever she arrived at the house she was instructed to go through the garage to knock at the servants’ entrance where she made exchanges without ever once being invited inside the home. The lady of the manor had never gone to college nor held a job. She had come from a low income family but her husband had taken an idea and built it into a successful empire. Forgetting from whence she had come she often yelled at my daughter and treated her as though she was inferior and undeserving of respect. That is the kind of snobbery that I hope I never emulate.  

I was taught to treat the man who mows my lawn with as much dignity as I would accord to Bill Gates. In fact, I have learned first hand that Bill Gates would probably agree with me. The one time that I met him in a small and personal group he was gracious and willing to hear what my students and I had to say about education. He took notes and fielded questions that demonstrated that he was seriously pondering our comments. 

I hope that I never come across as a snob. I boast about my grandchildren and speak of the joy I get from reading and taking classes and writing. I pray that nobody mistakes my joy for an assertion of superiority. We each have much to offer in the world, even the soul whose life is wretched. But for happenstance I might be the Queen of England or a woman struggling to escape the ravages of war in Syria. We are not so different from one another after all and it is often only the accident of birth that stratifies us as rich or poor, a success or a failure, a citizen of a wealthy democracy or a victim of authoritarian exploitation.