Category: Commentary

When I was in the sixth grade a new girl came to my school and ended up sitting across from me in class. I was a quiet student so I never got chatty with her during the school day. Nonetheless I soon got to know her because she and I walked home on the same route. I learned that she and her family had moved into a rental house one street over from where I lived. 

She was nice enough even though she seemed very different from the other kids in my neighborhood. I learned that she was from somewhere up north. I did not pry into her personal life so I have no idea from whence she actually came nor why she had moved from there in the middle of a school year. I only noticed that she talked with an accent and sometimes used words and phrases that were not familiar to me. I should have understood how difficult it was for her to adjust to a whole new place because I had endured the same situation when my family moved to California. Somehow I was too focused on my own adolescent problems to realize that the two of us were much more alike than different. 

I enjoyed having a walking companion on my journey home. I lived many blocks away from the school and most of the kids that I knew resided much closer. I would find myself trudging along with my heavy book bag wishing that I did not have so far to go. Once the new girl arrived the journey seemed much easier as she peppered our conversation with talk of things I had never before known.

For some reason some of the boys in my class began to bully this girl. They made fun of her hair and her very pale skin. She seemed to be timid and even a bit awkward. Everything about her seemed so different from the rest of us but I did not understand why the boys found such humor in taunting her over it. 

She wore heavy wool socks with brown clunky shoes that seemed more compatible with the military than attire for a classroom. Her heavy coat seemed out of place even on a cold February day. I suppose that none of us stopped to think that her heavy clothing had protected her quite well from the snow and ice of the place where she had lived before arriving in our more moderate climate. I suppose that she became a target simply because she was different.

It bothered me that my traveling companion had become the butt of many jokes and much laughter but I was far too shy to speak my views. I tried to demonstrate my loyalty to her by refusing to laugh at the insults that made everyone chuckle. I knew that the boy who was leading the harassment had a mean streak and I did not want his ugly barbs to be aimed at me. As time went by the trauma only grew for the girl. Then one day it blew up in the middle of a lesson. 

I don’t know what was said or how the incident started but suddenly the girl stood up and screamed to seemingly nobody in particular that she was not going to take it anymore. Without a moment’s hesitation the lead bully made a stab at her that left the classroom in a state of crude and merciless laughter. I hung my head in shame wishing that I might become invisible. Then the girl sank back down into her seat with tears running down her face. I just sat frozen between the horrific choice of defending her or staying silent. 

It was left to our teacher to save the day and she did so with so much skill and thoughtfulness that I will never forget how much I loved her at the moment and forevermore. She turned the tide of horror with a few well chosen words. Soon everyone was feeling a sense of guilt that we had not stood up for the newcomer in our midst. She helped us to realize the power of prejudice and fear in targeting and hurting individuals and groups. She turned the situation into a history lesson and an assessment of our personal morality. 

The girl and I continued walking home together for the rest of that school year. She never spoke of what had happened and I did not ask her how she was feeling. I saw the sadness in her eyes. I felt the pain and disappointment that she tried to hide. We simply talked about mundane topics to fill the silence. 

I never walked the extra block to visit with the girl and she never came to my house. Ours was simply an expedient relationship created by the crossing of our paths. I grew to like her but I dared not ask her too many questions that might make her think that I was somehow judging her. We kept our conversations lighthearted and without much depth. When the summer came I did not see her or even think to go find her to see how she was doing. I was busy and I assumed that she was as well. There would be time enough to catch up with her when the school year began anew. We might even find ourselves in the same classroom again. I looked forward to our walks together.

I never saw the girl again. I suppose that her parents had moved once more. I missed being with her on my long walks home. I realized how much I had really enjoyed her company and wished that I had taken the time to tell her how much I liked her. I would think of her anytime I witnessed bullying. I became an advocate for those without a voice but somehow I knew that I too had betrayed her by not speaking out as soon as I had witnessed what was happening. I vowed not to ever again be silent even if it made things difficult for me. 

The new girl and my sixth grade teacher had taught me a powerful lesson. There have been and will always be bullies in this world. We each of the power to defang their ugliness as long as we call out their coldhearted prejudices as soon as we witness them. They are weak people who have to use threats and violence to appear strong. If enough of us counter them, they will shut down. 

Be watchful for anyone who is knowingly hurting others with words or actions. Do not blindly follow them no matter what they offer you in return for your loyalty. Do not brush off their actions or explain away their cruelty. Stand up. Speak out. Be not afraid!  

My mother-in-law had beautiful hands which she often used to make a point when talking. Somehow her beautiful fingers gave support to whatever she was saying. They were so elegant and mesmerizing that they seemed to be a physical extension of her enchanting intellect and kind soul. They were not the hands of labor but rather those of nobility and royalty, someone whose time was spent in higher pursuits of the mind. 

She was born with a heart defect and told as an adolescent that she might not live past her twenties, if she even got that far. She was treasured and protected by the people who loved her and she reciprocated in kind all of the days of her life which turned out to be much longer than anyone had ever believed was possible. Her hands spoke of the support that her family and friends gave her and they were indeed a beautiful tribute to the power of the concentrated efforts to keep her heart beating. 

I look at my own hands and see the DNA of laboring people. My grandmother’s hands and my mother’s hands were like mine. Each of us did our own cleaning, cooking, gardening, laboring. We came from stock that toiled the soil, cleaned for the wealthy. It is as though nature prepared us for hard work and our hands always reflected the abuse to which we subjected them. 

I have been prone to hide my hands rather than flash them in front of people. They looked like an old woman’s hands even when I was still young. I was not particularly self conscious of them, but neither did I consider them to be one of my best features. When a friend suddenly grabbed them one day and declared that thought they were beautiful, I was stunned. She went on to explain that my hands had character. They told her a story of determination, independence and authenticity. 

I have to admit that I laughed at first, even though I knew that she would never say such a think unless she genuinely believed that it was true. I realized that she looked at the years of abuse on my hands as something wonderful, a sign of all the efforts I had put into living each day. She gently held my hands, lingering for a moment to study the lines and crooked fingers, the nails in need of a manicure. Then she squeezed them and said that they were far more interesting than the bland perfections of a model who never dipped her fingers in dirt. 

I have always remembered that moment because it gave me a new perspective on the world in general. We each have our ideals about what is beautiful and what is ugly, but if we really speak honestly with one another we find that our preferences can vary tremendously. Our biases in deciding attractiveness has much to do with the totality of our life experiences and little to do with the superficialities of popular opinion. We see through our own eyes in such a way that what is beautiful to me may seem unremarkable to someone else. Defining beauty in a way that is universal is almost impossible because our feelings about others are layered with our emotional experiences with them. We tend to apply beauty to the inner spirits of people rather than only their physical traits. 

My maternal grandmother was as round as she was tall. Her skin was wrinkled and her hair was grey. She walked on bare feet grown hard hard and cracked from decades of tending to her family. She was an old lady when I became old enough to really remember her appearance. To some she may have seemed to be less than extraordinary, but I viewed her as a beauty. I wondered at her ability to care for four boys and four girls in a tiny house. I marveled that she had somehow kept order and made them understand how much she loved them. I saw her blue eyes that were tired and had lost their twinkle as the badge of all that she had given in her devoted lifetime. She was exactly what a grandmother was supposed to look like in my mind.

They say that beauty is only skin deep. Our best physical years are often fleeing. The beauty queen of today only seems to stay that way as long as she is also gorgeous inside. All the creams and potions on the earth are only as good as the heart of the person wearing them. That glow that lights up a room comes from character, not manufactured efforts. 

I have a friend who is doing remarkable things for people who live in medical deserts. She has little time to primp and preen. She wears no makeup and pulls her hair back away from her face to keep it out of the way. She has important work to do and little time for trivialities. Nonetheless when she smiles with the satisfaction of the good she is doing in the world she instantly becomes one of the most stunningly beautiful people on earth. Nobody can fake what is not in the heart and hers is the essence of beauty. 

He was twenty years older than I am but I nonetheless had a huge crush on Gene Hackman for decades. I think it was his smile and the way he was able to use his eyes to seem as though he was able to peer into a person’s very soul. Every single role that he played felt so real, so very him. He was a brilliant in his artistic expression which eventually led him to painting and writing novels. 

It does not surprise me that Gene Hackman would be attracted to a concert pianist or that she would fall in love with him despite their thirty year age difference. He somehow never seemed to grow older on the screen. In fact it was always difficult to guess what his age actually was, at least until his later years when photos depicted a frail and bent over man who was almost unrecognizable. 

Whether Gene Hackman portrayed a hero or a villain I adored him. He was an everyman with charisma. Somehow his image took over every scene in which he was featured. He never seemed like a fictional character, but rather a real human being with deep feelings. At least that is how he was able to portray his many characters. There was something both intense and whimsical about him. 

It seems in keeping that Gene would settle down in Santa Fe, New Mexico when he decided to leave acting and concentrate on having a more private life. The quirky town suited him with its rugged whimsey and incredible beauty. It is a place where being yourself is always possible. 

I had continued watching Gene Hackman’s films long after he left acting. I suppose that I never really thought about what he might be doing. He stayed alive for me in his many roles. It was shocking when I learned that he had died at the age of ninety six. Somehow I could not imagine him as an old man until I saw the last photos of him and his wife. It was difficult to see that the life in his eyes was gone and that his devoted spouse looked tired and perhaps even a bit worried. 

Taking care of an older person requires boundless energy and patience. i should know because my father-in-law moved in with us about three years ago. Sometimes it feels as though the work that I now have to do has grown exponentially. I suppose that it only feels that way because I am no spring chicken myself at the age of seventy six and before his arrival my husband and I had very casual and loosely scheduled kind of life. my father-in-laws needs require a strict schedule more akin to the days when I was still working. Meals and medicines and laundry and cleaning follow the clock each day. It can be both tiring and demanding even as my husband and I do this out of love. 

I suspect that the routines and responsibilities for Gene became every more challenging for his wife as his Alzheimer’s worsened and his health declined. We will never know how she contracted the hantavirus or if she even realized how sick she actually was. She ran errands and responded to emails throughout her last day on this earth. It must have been shocking and confusing for Gene to be alone in his home after she died in the bathroom with pills strew around her. I doubt he knew what to do. His state of mind must have been that of a small child left alone with no idea how to call for help or even to fully understand what was happening. It breaks my heart to think of him wandering around his home in his slippers for a week before he too died. 

We have an aging population. The baby boomers like myself are growing older. More and more often I learn of contemporaries who have died. I have already lost many of my dearest friends. It can be difficult watching those we love suffering from strokes and heart attacks or losing battles with cancer. The losses come so quickly and so often that it might seem that we would become somewhat immune to death but that is not so. In fact, every loss takes a piece of who we are. 

My grandfather lived to the age of one hundred eight. people congratulated him for his longevity and the fact that until the very end his mind was clear and strong. Sadly he grew weary of wondering how much longer he would be on this earth. He had lost his wife, his children and many of his grandchildren. it had taken a toll on him even as he remained stoic and optimistic. He soldiered on but admitted now and again that he would not mind if his life finally came to an end. 

I suppose I mull over such things more these days than I once did. I have always felt immortal and yet my creaky knees and the spasms in my back slow me down and remind me that I am not the dynamo that I once was. Hearing about Gene Hackman and the horror of his final days tells me that I need to listen to my daughters more and begin to consider changing my lifestyle from total independence to relying more on their wisdom and suggestions for how to enter that last years or decades of my life. I will be looking for a balance that allows both them and me to feel free but also considerate of the limitations that I must inevitably accept. 

For now I’ll keep writing and teaching and tutoring. I love to garden but can only engage in heavy lifting in small bites. Life is ever changing and I must be ready to play the roles that lie ahead. The tragedy of Gene Hackman’s end has given me a bit more pause. Nonetheless, I choose to remember Gene for the glorious gift of acting that he gave us all. I’ll be watching his movies over and over again. Rest in peace, sweet Gene with your beautiful and loving wife. You were and will always be my movie idol.

― Dietrich Bonhoeffer

“We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice, we are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.” —Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I have always been fascinated by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, an outspoken Lutheran minister and theologian who advocated for the Jewish people during the Nazi reign of terror in Germany. Bonhoeffer was born into a life of affluence and education. His father was a renowned psychologist and neurologist. His mother was a teacher. Bonhoeffer himself developed an early interest in theology traveling to New York City in his twenties to study at a seminary where he developed a friendship with an African American named Albert Fisher. 

Albert introduced Bonhoeffer to Harlem, jazz, and the Abyssinian Baptist Church then pastored by Adam Clayton Powell. There he was awed by the idea of using God’s word in pursuit of social justice for the underserved. He revelled in the spirituals and joy of the Black congregants of the church. It changed the direction of his own spiritual journey as he realized that the real message of Jesus is to serve others, even those that we may not understand. 

The inspired Bonhoeffer returned to a Germany that he did not understand. He saw that the Hitler regime had taken over all aspects of communication, even the messages of ministers in the churches. Politics and religion had become entwined. The Reich had even added two additional commandments to the original ten suggesting that Hitler and his regime had been sent to Germany by God. Additionally, the Jews were being openly harassed and sent away. Bonhoeffer was incensed and he bravely voiced his distaste for Hitler and his support for all people.

Eventually Bonhoeffer was under so much scrutiny that he had to flee to a protected place where a select group of young men were being trained to become ministers. For a time his work there was joyous but the Nazis eventually found out about what was happening there and forced all the the young men into military service. 

As the atmosphere in Germany was becoming more and more dangerous Bonhoeffer was sent to London as a liaison to inform the clergy there of the oppression that the German people and most especially the Jews were facing. He persuaded them to ban together in both revealing and protesting what Hitler was doing.

Bonhoeffer might have stayed safely in England for the duration of Hitler’s reign of terror but he felt that his work had to be done in Germany for the sake of the people there. He returned to an even more dangerous situation than ever and even became involved in a plot to assassinate Hitler. When the attempt failed he and the others knew that they might be found out sooner or later so once again his family and leaders of the church suggested that Bonhoeffer return to New York City to enlist the support of the people he had met there. 

With great reluctance Bonhoeffer agreed but once he arrived in America he knew that his place was back in Germany despite the danger. Rather than embrace the safety of the moment he made his way back to his homeland where he was almost immediately arrested and sent to a concentration camp. There he wrote one of his most famous and widely admired books books. 

After a year and a half of imprisonment Bonhoeffer was set to be put to death by direct order from Hitler. A German guard whom he had befriended over time offered a plan to free him but Bonhoeffer worried that the guard, his family, and others would face retribution. He told the guard that he was ready to see God. 

On the day of his hanging Bonhoeffer held a church service for the other prisoners. He gave the writings that he had composed to the guard. He bravely walked to the gallows and prayed before dying. He was thirty nine years old. Only days later the Allied army defeated the Germans and freed the members of the concentration camp. Hitler committed suicide and the war was over. 

Bonhoeffer was most certainly a martyr and probably even a saint. He wrote numerous texts and books that are still read and studied by theologians and ordinary readers to this very day. There is even a society of people who work to keep his ideas alive. Perhaps his words that have most impacted me are summed up in this passage, “Judging others makes us blind, whereas love is illuminating. By judging others we blind ourselves to our own evil and to the grace which others are just as entitled to as we are.”

Our own times are dangerous and filled with much anger. We might do well to consider the wisdom of Dietrich Bonhoeffer who seemed to truly understand two main lessons from Jesus. The first is that we love our neighbors and the other is that we not judge them. It is up to us to break the wheels of injustice wherever and whenever we see any of our fellow humans being harmed. Each of us has work to do.

I have been thinking about the tale of Peter Pan these days. We all know the story of adventure with the boy who never wanted to grow up. As children we marveled at his ability to fly and his courage in standing up to the villain, Captain Hook. It is a favorite tale of the growing pains of becoming an adult. What we don’t often think about is how strong the women in the story actually are. We have often tended to view them as background characters who provide Peter Pan with the opportunity to be a gallant knight. If we really think about the tale we must surely realize that the ladies are so much more.

Wendy is the most developed character after Peter Pan and Captain Hook. While she is till living in the nursery with her younger brothers she is already quite mature, moving into adult roles without really thinking about it. She is a strong willed and intelligent young woman who assumes the responsibility of mothering the lost boys quite smoothly. Much like most young women she has incredible instincts when it comes to handling the day to day routines and even emergency situations. She is the mature voice in the story, the steady hand that keeps everyone full and happy. As she reads stories to the boys one has to be in awe of her intellectual abilities and her insightfulness in knowing what they need.

Tinkerbell may be a tiny fairy but it is she who saves Peter Pan from being poisoned. Her courage is out-sized as she drinks the foul potion to keep Peter from becoming deathly ill. Her loyalty and concern for Peter is repeated over and over again. She is much stronger and more capable than she at first appears to be.

Tiger Lily is Peter Pan’s pal. She too steadfastly defends her friend with grit and determination. She rescues Peter Pan over and over again, standing up to Captain Hook without thoughts of her own safety.

Even Nana, the dog who watches over Wendy and her brothers, is faithful and protective of her charges. She worries over them and uses her instincts to keep them from harm. She takes her job very seriously.

Societies throughout history have tended to underestimate the courage and intellect of women. For centuries they were mostly relegated to secondary roles, often without benefit of education. They helped with the housework, care of their siblings and eventually bore their own children. They did not get the right to vote in the United States until the twentieth century after fighting incredible battles to get there. Gaining parity with their male counterparts has been an uphill battle that continues to this very day. In some cultures they have even been pushed into regressive situations. Of late groups here in the United States seem intent on forcing them into the old traditional ways of behaving even as they declare that they won’t go back.

I remember being afraid to demonstrate my intelligence in my teen years. I nonetheless worked hard and made good grades because I actually enjoyed learning. I often thought of my father who had encouraged me to read and to explore the world around me. I remembered my Grandma Minnie Bell who regretted her inability to read or write. I wanted to use the gifts I had been given while also wondering if I should hide them. I sensed that some of the young men who were my fellow students found my studiousness to be unattractive. The world was still struggling to accept women as equals to men.

I was in the generation that saw barrier after barrier being torn down by courageous women who carved a pathway for the rest of us. They balanced home and work life and literally led a revolution. Today there are more women graduating from college than men. Women hold executive positions in almost every kind of work. We now can clearly see that women are able handle much more than it was once thought possible.

In spite of this evidence the American people still seem to be unwilling to accept a woman as President. We’ve had worthy candidates along the way but they always just miss gaining the right segment of votes to earn the honor. When they lose there are all kinds of critiques regarding their lack of likability or their inexperience. The same factors are rarely used to assess men.

Hillary Clinton was a star student at her high school, her college, and her law school. Everyone who knew her saw her potential. She stood toe to toe with men throughout her life and yet when she ran for President her resume was judged to be lacking even though she had been a Senator and the Secretary of State. She lost to a millionaire real estate broker and television personality. Somehow his business acumen was judged to be more attuned to a leadership role than hers even though he had backrupted multiple businesses in his rise to fame.

Most recently I heard person after person insist that Kamala Harris did not have enough experience to be the President. They seemed to ignore the fact that she had been a District Attorney, the California Attorney General, a Senator and Vice President of the United States. They instead went with the same man who had defeated Hillary Clinton in spite of his botching of the pandemic response and his attempt to overthrow the legal vote count in the 2020 election. They claimed that Kamala Harris had no platform when she actually did. They would have known this if they had taken to time to listen to her. Instead they bought into the disjointed lies, the fear mongering and strange musings of Donald Trump. Once again the woman lost to an inferior man, most likely because too many Americans are still unable to accept the idea that a woman is capable of doing what was once exclusively a man’s job.

I truly long for the day when such backward thinking is a thing of the past. I have an incredible granddaughter who has the potential to do great things if only she is given the chance to do so. She has already been a featured speaker for her research into minority voting habits. She has worked for a city government, a defense attorney and a district attorney all while making near perfect grades in her college classes. She has even had one of her papers published and will present her findings at an international conference in the spring. She is determined to make a difference in the world and it is my hope that she will not be held back by backward ideas that procalims that she is somehow not equal in abilities to her male peers.

Women will keep moving forward. It’s what we do. One day perhaps we will all understand their incredible powers and we will be excited about welcoming them into executive authority. My wish is that I will live to see it happen. For now I simply refuse to force any woman to go back to the past.