Category: Commentary

Many years ago I accompanied one of my students to New York City where she was slated to receive a national award for an art film that she had produced. Along with her art teacher I was able to see the sights of that grand town and enjoy the artistry that is so alive and abundant there. New York is a mecca for talented individuals hoping to display their passions for acting, painting, writing, sculpture, dance, music, fashion. There is a vibrancy and creativity that abounds even on the street corners where performers entertain crowds no doubt in the hopes of finding a pathway to fame and possibly fortune. 

I love the arts and truly believe that they rank with mathematics and science and philosophy as the ultimate evidence of human genius. Most of us can do a bit of arithmetic, pose some interesting questions about how things work and scribble designs on paper but the most talented among us excel far beyond the ordinary. There is something about their abilities that marks them as exceptional and this is particularly true with art. 

While I visited NYC I went to the Museum of Modern Art fondly known as MOMA. It houses some of the most stunning works of the modern era, many of which beg us to think outside of the parameters of everyday experience. Some view the most bizarre works, such as a white canvas with a single red stripe, as silly and easily reproduced by a child but further inspection reveals a mastery of paint and form and texture that few of us are capable of even understanding. Enduring works like Andy Warhol’s Campbell soup can are not only extraordinary in technique but also icons of an era. The complexities of modern art are much more daunting than a first glance reveals. It takes time and serious analysis to see and understand the nuances of such work. 

The film that my student produced was recognized by an international group of judges because its message was profound both visually and in content. In the space of only a few minutes she managed to pose questions about society without uttering a word that would indicate her intent. She demonstrated how we so often ignore the realities of life and instead lose ourselves in a world of our own fantasies. We look away from real problems that are right under our noses and see only what we want to see to justify our thinking. I understood why she won a prize but I wonder how many others would have seen her short movie as little more than silliness that made no point. 

Such it is whenever we view art. Some seem to think that it has to be rather linear, duplicating the world just as it seems to be rather than delving below the surface. They do not want to have to guess the meaning of any work of art but rather desire easy answers and duplications of their own desires. Real art is always challenging. The masterpieces of history are filled with messages about humankind that are not always obvious at first glance.

I can’t say that there is any kind of artistry that I do not enjoy viewing. Like anyone I have my favorites but I see nuances in shadows, colors, words, notes that elevate the masters from the copiers. Often it is a single moment of creative genius that demonstrates that we are in the presence of something that will be revered for all time. The expression on Denzel Washington’s face in the movie Glory as he is being whipped for disobeying orders conveys the pain of all the slaves who ever suffered under a yoke of oppression. His acting becomes a work of art. 

Great art takes us to places that boggle our minds. It delves into the human condition without apology. It is often misunderstood much like some of the work of Mozart was during his lifetime. We sometimes listen to hip hop and can’t get past the seemingly foul words instead of really hearing the message of what is being said. We can’t understand why Bob Dylan received the Nobel prize for literature unless we strip down his songs to the words and finally hear them as they were intended to be. 

I decorate my home mostly with items that mean something to me. My cousin laughs and jokes that everything I own seems to have a story and that is so true. I make attempts to coordinate colors and styles but mostly I just showcase the unusual and sentimental pieces that taken together explain my life. The stories only enhance the value of those items for me. They are not just things, they are part of a complex tapestry that I have woven together over many decades. They represent milestones, friendships, travels, achievements, memories. They are more than just decorations selected to represent a particular style. They are little hints about who I am and what I believe. Taken together they are almost like a biography, a puzzle that can be unraveled with a bit of imagination and thought. 

I appreciate art in all of its variety. The fact that we humans take the time to create seemingly useless forms of expression elevates us from the muck and the mud. There is something in us that compels us to paint on the wall of a cave, make music with a piece of wood, tell stories that are fantastical. It is baked into our DNA and some among us become giants in the world of art. 

My father not only enjoyed reading, but he also loved to go to the movies. I still remember viewing Shane with him. Alan Ladd was one of his favorite actors and Daddy loved the story which he talked about long after we had seen the flick. One of the last movies I watched with him was The Mountain with Spencer Tracy, perhaps my father’s all time favorite actor. We had also seen The Old Man and the Sea together and while that should have been a painfully slow film for a child my father’s enthusiasm for the artistry somehow translated to me and I have always cherished the profundity of that moment that I shared with him. 

Daddy was a man of many interests which was reflected in his reading habits. One of his volumes was filled with the horrors that came from the mind of Edgar Allen Poe. My father not only enjoyed reading such stories but also liked movies that were scary. Being a bit more protective of my psyche, my mother insisted that he not expose me to such things lest my little mind would not be capable of dealing with fright. Eventually my dad convinced Mama that a monster movie would be okay. He reasoned that I was bright enough to understand that imaginary creatures were not real and that such creations of the mind were simply good fun. So my parents took me to see Godzilla. 

Daddy had explained that people had somehow imagined dragons and non-existent creatures for all time. He told me about Loch Ness and insisted that any so called sightings of the strange animal had been faked. We laughed as he showed me stories about Big Foot and then recalled the story of King Kong. He did his best to rationally prepare me for yet another silly story about a nonexistent creature that we would soon enjoy at the movies. I thought I was totally ready for the event and my father was more than sure that I would be able to handle the story without fear.

Things began well but soon I felt my little heart pounding and creeping into my throat as Godzilla terrorized the places and the characters in the movies. It seemed more real than make believe and I had never in my life felt so scared. I was determined not to visibly show my real feelings because I did not want my mother to become angry with Daddy for subjecting me to such a thing. I knew that she would remind him that she had thought that I was too young and impressionable for the intensity of the movie even thought he had tried so hard to prepare me with logic and truth about so-called monsters. I laughed nervously when I wanted to scream. I closed my eyes when the images were too difficult to absorb. I somehow found courage to be steadfast even though I really wanted to cry and beg my mother to take me from the theater. When it was finally over I managed to smile weakly and proclaim that the movie had been great fun. 

My mother watched me closely and seemed certain that I was covering up my fears but she kept quiet as we drove home. I never told her how I really felt but as I lay in my bed in the quiet and darkness of our house that evening I did not want to close my eyes lest I see the horrific creature from the movie once again. Somehow sleep eventually overtook my attempts to stay awake and to my surprise did not lead to nightmares or visits from Godzilla to my bedroom. 

Once I had made it past that first night I seemed to be a changed person. I spoke of the movie with my father and even admitted to him how scared I had actually been at times. We laughed about how real the monster had seemed to be and Daddy spoke of camera tricks and makeup that made it all feel so possible. He asked if I was really okay and I assured him that not only was I good but I found myself looking forward to many more forays with stories of horror much like riding on a terrifying roller coaster again and again. 

I have to admit that some of my favorite movies are those that scare to the point of being almost breathless. My brain tells me that they are fiction but some part of my mind gets so involved that I almost feel as though I am one of the characters fighting for my life. I feel the danger in the tightening of my chest as my heart beats ever more quickly. I jump in my seat and find myself almost gasping for breath. Somehow the thrill of it all is mesmerizing, addictive and so strange. It would make more sense for me to avoid purposely scaring myself but maybe my father was right when he told me that we humans have been telling frightening tales from the beginning of time and somehow still finding such moments entertaining. Perhaps it is our need to allow the demons inside our imaginations to run free lest keeping them inside might drive us to madness. 

Even my husband is sometimes baffled by my attraction to horror. It seems out of place with my general character and tendency to be cautious. I suspect that somehow I see it as yet another link with my father and a kind of proof that I can be brave when I need to be. Watching horror films is a kind of practice for facing fears and a way of enjoying the amazing variety of our human minds. I’m always ready to grab some popcorn and a Diet Coke and sit shivering in the dark when the monsters appear on the screen. I almost hear my father marveling at the really great stories and fabulous camera work and telling me how they managed to put it all together. We share a wink and pretend that we were never scared at all.

I gained a few more pounds than I needed during the long year of the pandemic. I all too often soothed my soul with banana bread or ice cream. As we all began to get out again my clothing told me that I needed to get back some control or invest in a whole new wardrobe. The sweatpants and pajamas that had become my daily uniform during the long months of mostly staying home had fooled me into thinking that I was just as slim and trim as ever. When I stepped on my long neglected digital scale it was no longer working properly so I had to re-calibrate it before it showed me that I had some work to do if I wanted to get back in shape. 

Life is like that. We work hard and then get a bit too relaxed and have to consider how to get ourselves back on track. Sometimes we even consider how we might have done a few things differently in the story of our lives. I have to admit that overall I have little about which to complain in how things have turned out for me. There have been many events over which I only had the ability to control my reactions to them. For others I had many choices and did my best to be wise in considering what to do. I admittedly made some mistakes but luckily none of them were profoundly life changing. As I sit here today I feel satisfied with my own history but understand that much of who I am has been a matter of luck, good fortune in being in a place and time that allowed me to mostly fulfill the possibilities of my talents and dreams. 

It would only be small stuff that I might adjust here and there. I’d choose the same spouse, the same career, the same place to live. Most of my joy has come from my family, friends and work so I would be loathe to tamper with any aspect of those relationships lest one tiny tweak might change the entire dynamic. Losing my father was profoundly difficult for me but if I that had never happened I wonder if all of the rest of my life would have been very different. I accept that his death was somehow meant to be. I suppose that if he had lived I would never have known what I missed due to the changes that were inevitable. I had to become a stronger, better person after he died. I remembered all that he had taught me and urged me to be. I have carried him in my heart for decades so in some ways he never really left. 

If I were to actually change one aspect of my personality perhaps I might have taken a few more risks. I approach life with great caution in everything that I do. It’s not a bad way to be but maybe it has resulted in some part of me not blooming the way it should. I watch my granddaughter taking on the world with gusto, winning and faltering along the way but never being afraid. I know that I sometimes overthink things and then back away from uncertainty. I’ve been a reliable and steady force for my family and friends but just maybe I have undersold myself and my abilities. 

I suppose it’s never too late to begin to try things. I won’t be learning how to ski or jumping out of a plane. My bones are too fragile for such extremes but I need to get my book out there for the public to decide whether of not it is of any worth. I must set aside my internal arguments that perhaps writing a memoir was little more than a silly and somewhat self centered process. I have to top worrying about how my story will be received and just get the process done. 

I have friends and family members and former students who have written books and enjoyed a modicum of success with selling them. At this point it should not matter as much how well my efforts will be critiqued or enriching but that I was willing to just try to share a story that I believe will help others to deal with the tragedies that beset their lives. I just have to get this done one way or another and quit languishing in self doubt. I think I will contact the young man who agreed to design a cover and find someone who can help me plough through the process of preparing it to upload. The time is now, not tomorrow!

At my age there is always a bit of uncertainty as to how much more time I may have. I sense that I need to use each moment to the fullest. That means never missing an opportunity to embrace and love and encourage the people in my life. The dust in the corners of my rooms can wait now. It is far better to make that phone call or drive across town to spend some time with the people who have so enriched my life. I don’t want to be that person who is always saying that once I get some things done we can get together. It’d be better to hire a cleaning service and have time for what really matters like I did with my yard. Many years ago I found myself spending entire Saturdays mowing and trimming and weeding my lawn. When my mower broke I saw it as a sign that it was time for me to let go of that task and hand it over to someone else. Perhaps there are many other things that I should consider allowing professionals to do instead of frittering away my time attempting to do them myself. 

I’ve worked hard over the years. Now I just want to spend time with family and friends, see the world, and feel gratitude for the wonderful life that I have had. It may not have been as I had once dreamed but it has definitely been filled with joy. In truth it’s been a lovely story all around.

It is wedding season, or at least it seems to be so. All of a sudden I am receiving invitations to a host of weddings but I am admittedly a bit uncertain that it is now safe to attend such events. Back in October when Covid-19 was still raging in the United States my nephew got married and my doctor advised me not to attend. I’m still saddened that I had to miss his very special day but I also know that I did the right thing. One of my daughters went with her husband and sons to represent the family. She said that it was outdoors and most of the people wore masks so she felt relatively safe but insisted that it still would not have been a good idea for me and her father to go. From what I hear he did everything right and it was a fun and memorable affair. I wish I had been there.

It’s been difficult turning down invitations given that I am usually one of the people most likely to show up for weddings. I check with doctor each time a new card arrives in the mail and thus far he continues to advise me to stay away at least for a bit longer. I sometimes wonder when he will finally decide that I am good to go once again. I truly miss being able to celebrate with special people even though I suspect that nobody would really notice that I am not there. I say this because I’ve actually attended such events in the past and then been shocked to realize that the bride and groom never knew that I had been there. 

I think it tends to be that way for most couples getting married. The wedding and reception ends up in a kind of haze. After all of the planning for a perfect day all the two can focus on is one another, which is exactly as it should be. In my own case I remember simply going through the motions of all of the wedding day traditions and wanting desperately for it all to just end so that I might get on with the rest of my life. I sometimes wonder why we spend so much time, energy and money on creating the perfect wedding because in truth they all feel somewhat alike and it’s difficult to actually remember anything about one wedding versus another. 

When I got married things were far more simple than today’s huge celebrations. Our reception took place in the Parish Hall and lasted less than a couple of hours. We greeted our guests and offered them cake, coffee, punch and some little sandwiches to munch on while everyone mingled for a time or sat on folding chairs waiting for my husband and I to depart. I may as well have been in a coma for all that I remember about that evening from the moment that I began my walk down the aisle to the time when we rushed to our car under a hail of rice. 

Since then I’ve been to wedding after wedding and they all seem to get just a bit bigger and more complex over time. Even the cakes are incredibly elaborate affairs but in truth their appearance is not nearly as important as the taste. That is what I really recall when I think of the most memorable slices of cake that I have tried. The best cakes are moist and almost melt in the mouth. Those with that rubbery frosting designed to resemble some object are not even worth the extra calories that they add to my daily diet. So it is with weddings and receptions that are over the top.

Weddings don’t have to be elaborate or expensive to be fun. My brother got married on the beach and his reception was at an outdoor pavilion where we munched on barbecue and toasted the bride and groom with margaritas. We danced in our sandals and flip flops and laughed reveled in the joy that filled the air. Instead of cake we ate apple pie and marvel to this day on how wonderful the whole affair had been. 

Destination weddings can be fabulous as well. A few years back an educator friend married in Cancun. The festivities began days before the actual ceremony with everyone who attended getting know each other better in a very relaxed atmosphere. The actual vows took place with the spectacular backdrop of the Caribbean and most of us waded through the sand to our seats in our bare feet. The reception was a happy affair focused on hearing the stories of how the two had found their way to each other and fallen in love. Then we danced the night away under the stars. It was heavenly.

My mother and father got married by a Justice of the Peace. Other than the needed witnesses I don’t think anyone else was there. Later they had a church ceremony at St. Mary’s  Catholic Church in College Station, just the two of them. Someone took a photo of them near the entrance of the church wearing simple clothing and earnest looks of delight on their faces. They were young and focused on their future together rather than a one day bash. There were no guests, no gifts, no dinners or cake. Somehow they did not appear to have missed having all of those frills. Eleven years later they were still giddily in love and no doubt would have made it for a much longer time had my father not suddenly died.

I’m not against big weddings and I know that they are quite important as a way of marking the start of a shared lifetime but perhaps much as we always do we have made them far more extravagant than they need to be. The bills for such affairs are often enough to pay for a car or a year of college or even the trip of a lifetime. I wonder how many actually recall the details of such excesses when all is said and done. Bigger is not always better and sometimes it is not even as wonderful as a more intimate and meaningful ceremony. Perhaps we have gone too far when we see people deferring their actual marriages for years just to save enough for an eye popping wedding. Somehow that seems to be rather backward when all that anyone needs is the pledge of those vows to love, honor and cherish. Everything else is just frosting and decoration on the cake.

2020-2021 was a long school year for teachers and their students. I only worked with ten young people three days a week teaching various levels of mathematics and I was exhausted by the end of May. Teaching remotely was a whole new experience for all of us and while it seemed to work well for some, it just did not jibe for others. I found myself worrying about my kids and wondering if they were actually learning as well as I hoped they were. It’s a teacher’s lot in life to get emotionally involved with students and feel a deep sense of responsibility for their well being. The work of teaching never really ends, even with retirement. I can attest to that. 

It seems like yesterday when I met my first group of students at St. Christopher’s Catholic School. The job was nothing like I had expected to do since my major had focused on English linguistics and literature. The principal of the school, Lesley McAvoy Baptiste, needed a mathematics teacher and when she reviewed my transcript she noted that I had taken almost as many math courses as those in the English department. She urged me to accept a position as the one and only middle school mathematics teacher in the small Catholic school. 

Since there just happened to be a glut of teachers in the Houston area that year due to economic disruptions I was willing to try anything just to have the assurance of finally launching my career. I felt confident enough with my mathematical abilities to take a chance so I accepted the offer and set about planning for the six different courses that I would teach. I was determined to set my students on fire and provide them with a foundation in mathematics that would serve them wherever their lives eventually took them. I was also admittedly a bit afraid that I might not be as good at my work as I wanted to be but I plowed ahead with abandon.

My students for that year were all quite sweet and well behaved. In that regard I was quite lucky because I did not have to worry too much about classroom management. I was a bit older than most rookie teachers since I had parceled out my college attendance in small spurts owing to having two children and feeling responsible for the care of my mother whose bipolar disorder often demanded my attention. By the time I stood in the front of a classroom for the first time I was already thirty years old so I was able to pretend that I was a veteran teacher with years of experience. 

I worked hard to perfect my lessons and to find the best ways to convey mathematical knowledge. I quickly learned that most of my students had passions for history or science or even English but very few were excited about mathematics. In fact a larger number of them had developed phobias about numbers over the years and I often heard comments from students about their innate lack of mathematical abilities. I realized that I had to build their confidence before I would be successful teaching them algorithms and theorems. I tried to make mathematics relevant and concrete for them, something that I would get better and better at doing over time. 

That first year was not without challenges. We had hardly begun the fall semester when a hurricane blew through Houston and damage from the storm kept the school shuttered for over a week. Later in the year the eighth grade history teacher would suddenly leave and all of the schedules had to be rearranged to accommodate the situation. I ended up with two groups of students in my classroom at the same time. One sat in the back of the room working on assignments while I taught the other. In a lovely twist of fate my regular eighth grade math students were soon participating in the Algebra I class and asking to get copies of the books so that they too might do the homework and take the tests. 

I really loved my students and would think of them forevermore even though I had not thought of how to keep in touch with them. I have little idea where they are or what happened to them but I suspect that they are doing rather well because they were quite wonderful. Happily I’m still friends with my principal on Facebook so I get to see glimpses of her life now and again. We also seem to share the same philosophies of life which does not surprise me at all. 

My students from that first year got an eager version of my teaching but not the one that kept improving with each passing year. I learned more about people and the threads that bind us together as I became more confident and relaxed in my work. I also realized that being humane and understanding toward my students was the most powerful tool for conveying knowledge. I learned how to meet them where they were and then uplift them to a place where they might feel courageous enough to try things that had once frightened them. I hope I also made them feel loved. 

As I read the many stories of teachers and their students I think of my first year of doing the work that has brought me so much joy. In the memory of my mind I see my first classroom filled with eager faces and I feel the dreams that beat in every heart. I hope that somehow they all know how much I cared and maybe even sense that I have never forgotten them or any of the thousands of others who followed them. My kids will always be my kids and my love for them is unconditional and forever.