Category: Commentary

I once had a teacher who was devoted to her occupation but believed that being fiercely strict was the only way to keep order in the classroom. Her rules were firmly entrenched and she gave no thought to situations that should have required exceptions. She truly seemed to believe that her ways of doing things were fair and justified but those of us in her care learned to fear her more than admire her. It was a long difficult year in her classroom where cruelty reared its ugly head over and over again.

I understand that some people actually crave order and design in their lives. They see toughness as a kind of mechanism for safety and assurance that no one group or person gets special treatment. They set out rules that are hard and fast based on their on beliefs about what should be allowed and what should be punished. They use those guidelines for judging behaviors that seem out of line with the norm. They quickly go after the people in their midst that they do not understand without any attempt to accept that there are many different ways of living. They believe that they have found the key to a good life and insist that everyone follow their dictums. They have little patience for deviance from their personal norms and even seem to believe that they are actually doing everyone a favor by showing them what is the best way to live together in harmony. 

Sadly such rigidity inevitably borders on cruelty. It becomes the avenue for taking the children of Native Americans from their families in attempts to turn the little ones into “white men and women.” It justifies enslaving people from other cultures while believing that doing so actually makes their lives better than they may otherwise have been. It ends with whole groups being held in detention centers out of fears that they may be enemies of the state. It demonizes members of the LGBTQ community insisting that they are broken individuals. It is all too often based on fears of anyone or any group that is different and focuses on an unwarranted need to keep them at bay.

Many people voted for Donald Trump because they believed that he is a tough guy who would protect them from whatever boogeymen that they feared. He has been a man of his word in going after entire groups that he and his voters think are creating major problems for our nation. In the process he has created a kind of pecking order of classification that is dangerously cruel and prone to fomenting unjustified fear for Americans who are thought to be too different from the rest of us to earn a place in our midst. 

Cruelty motivates references to every person from Somalia as “garbage.” Immigrants from third world countries are universally ruled as drains on society. People are viewed not as individuals but as problems as a group. Women are called piggies and insulted for daring to boldly ask questions. Trans people are denied the right to be who they are and made to be monsters among us. People on boats are being blown out of the water and killed without due process to determine if they are truly drug dealers attempting to bring dangerous substances into our country. Often theses kinds of injustices are being bolstered by tying them to religious beliefs that have literally perverted the words and teachings of Jesus. 

The dangers of such racist, sexist and sordid thinking are affecting far too many souls who are now living daily in fear. Their rights as humans are being violated by Trump and his lackeys with total disregard for the worth of every person regardless of where they were born and how they look. The growing cruelty is alarming, particularly when our president stays awake at night posting ugly screeds about those that he hopes to punish. 

We have reached a tipping point, a watershed moment. If we do not condemn the cruelty that we are witnessing loudly and continually then we become complicit in the destruction that it is creating. It is all too easy to just sit back and assert that none of what is happening has anything to do with our own lives. In my own case it would be so much more comfortable to just be thankful that I have not been personally affected by the ugliness and probably never will be. In spite of being part of the favored group I know that I cannot just sit passively saying nothing when a fellow human is suffering anywhere. 

It is long past time for each of us to protect and defend the people whose lives are being so brutally attacked by our president and his cabinet of fools. We are not school children subject to the ugly whims of an unkind teacher. We cannot sit silently when we see cruel attacks on anyone. Some have already marched. Some have written to their Congresspersons. Some have voted against the current regime. There is still so much more to be done. Our voices must drown the ugliness and put a stop to the cruelty. Together we can do it. 

It is the season in which so many religions remind us of our responsibilities to all of humanity. Love in not cruel. Love is kind. Now is a wonderful time to join those who are already doing all that they can to set things right. Truly being tough means respecting everyone and stopping the bullies from hurting others. I think that Jesus showed us again and again that love, not hate, makes a better world for us all. 

I grew up knowing the story of Frankenstein only from films in which he was a monstrous character who only barely resembled a human. In the different movies and presentations Frankenstein has been a caricature who mostly grunts and makes stiff movements that are more cartoonish than scary. I was an adult before I finally turned to the book written by Mary Shelley that first introduced the world to Frankenstein. From the first pages I realized that the classic written by Ms. Shelley was far different and more complex than any of the renderings I had ever before seen. Hers was a philosophical consideration of humanity and our interactions with each other. 

Not long ago a friend who was a couple of years ahead of me in high school enthusiastically recommended the 2025 movie Frankenstein with an almost breathless insistence that it was one of the most moving films that she had seen in a very long time. Given that I had a kind of hero worship of her that dates back to our high school days I knew that I had to find out what had so enchanted her in the presentation directed by Guillermo del Toro. A few nights later I convinced my husband that our entertainment for the evening should be watching the film on Netflix. 

I realized from the onset that the movie was following the story as envisioned by Mary Shelley far more closely than any previous versions with only a few changes designed to make it more understandable on the screen. The tale of Victor Frankenstein and the human-like creature that he created unfolded on a ship imprisoned in ice in the far north. There Victor began the story of his childhood peppered with his adoration of his kind mother who had protected him from a demanding father who insisted that Victor study to become a surgeon. Victor’s tortured and confusing existence took a dark turn when his beloved mother died in childbirth. He became the spurned son who had to watch his younger brother become the favored child. In the process his determination to create life using the skills that he learned becomes an obsession. 

Victor Frankenstein’s determination to bring life back from death results in his expulsion from the society of doctors. Nonetheless, a seemingly chance meeting with a wealthy man provides him with the funding to carry out his beloved project of bringing life to once seemingly dead body parts. Both he and his patron work incessantly to find the secret to human animation. In the meantime his younger brother becomes engaged to the beautiful Elizabeth who reminds Victor of his loving mother. He falls in love with Elizabeth but she spurns him because he has become cold and distant and seemingly devoid of emotions other than anger, jealously and violence. 

Victor does indeed eventually create a creature but just as his father treated him cruelly, so too does he become a tyrant in his relationship with his manufactured son whose only wish is to have a truly good human interaction with his maker. Only Elizabeth senses the lovely humanity inside the seeming monster that Victor has made. 

The majority of the story revolves around the remembrances of Victor as he speaks to the captain of the stranded ship followed by the creature’s side of the story. We hear the pain in the tales of both the man and his creation. Both long for deep connections with others that never seem to bear fruit. We realize that in some ways it is Victor who has become the monster even as he wanted to be more like his mother than his father. On the other hand the creature develops enough compassion to understand why Victor is the way he is. 

The interplay of emotions, longings, beliefs about what life should be are both tragic and beautiful. Del Toro captures the full essence of Shelley’s classic with passion and beauty. He creates a vision of humanity that requires the viewer to think more deeply about what it means to be alive and how we should treat each other. It is a beautiful rendering of the story that left me both breathless and elated. My tears fell at the sheer wonder of all that the story asked me to consider.

Now the film has been nominated for several Golden Globe awards including best Motion Picture-Drama, Best Performance by a Male Actor for Oscar Isaac, Best Performance for a Male Actor in a Supporting Role for Jacob Elordi and Best Director for Guillermo Del Toro. My high school friend was on target in recommending that we watch this movie. LIke her I urge you to find the film on Netflix. You will be talking about it for a very long time. 

Aging gracefully is difficult for people like myself who have always prided themselves in being dynamos of energy. I worked twelve hour days for decades and still kept a spotless home without a maid or any outside assistance. I was able to get by with only a few hours of sleep and still be as sharp as a tack and as eager to do whatever work was in store for the day without making a dent in my abilities to run like a gazelle. I took pride in taking care of people without feeling overwhelmed so now that I am in the later years of my seventieth decade I am disturbed by the reality that I am slowing down. 

I still teach two days a week, write my blogs and keep my home in tip top condition but I do all of it more slowly than I once did. I can scrub the floor in my bathroom and make my sinks glow like they are brand new but that is when I have to rest almost as long as I was laboring before I can move on to the next task. My locomotion is inhibited by arthritic knees and hips that scream at me if I push them for too long. My pace includes a decided limp that causes my smartwatch to warn me that I need to check with a doctor about what to do the fix the problem. 

I’m scheduled for knee replacement on my worst leg in early February and I am already concerned about how long the doctor says it may take for full recovery. It galls me to consider moving around with a walker and then a cane but I will have to adjust to that reality. I have always thought of myself as being tough and admitting that I may finally have a bit of weakness is incredibly difficult for me. I understand that I need to adjust my attitude and learn to live graciously with the new lifestyle that is certainly coming my way. 

Up until recently I was taking care of my ninety six year old father-in-law and worrying about my younger brothers who have had a series of medical set backs. I saw myself as the stalwart who would be able to weather any disastrous situations with those that I love. I spent a summer accompanying my husband to his cancer treatments where I met some wonderful people while I waited while he was getting radiation. I was shocked one day when a nice man urged me to learn how to take care of myself as well. He had noted my limp and had seen me wearing sunglasses after surgery on my eyes. He realized that I was trying to be a soldier about it all and he noted that if I really wanted to be helpful to everyone else I needed to learn how to be accepting to the idea of selfceare. 

I’ve been thinking about that conversation after getting a phone call indicating that my father-in-law had fallen in the residence where he had moved. My first reaction was relief that he was no longer going up and down the stairs in our home to exercise on the treadmill. He and I had been conflicted over that with him insisting that the exercise was good for him and that he was steady on his feet. Sadly my next reaction to his fall was to feel guilty that he was not with us. Then someone mentioned that he probably got the care that he needs much more quickly from the trained staff who answered his call for help immediately and sent him for tests to determine what kind of damage may have been done. 

I suppose that I have been a bit self centered in thinking that I can do everything I did when I was thirty years old. My daughters and even many of my friends have been chiding me for climbing in and out of my attic and balancing on ladders. I am after all seventy seven years old and by any standard that is the mark of an older person. I have probably been putting myself at risk and worrying my children and grandchildren just as I have been worrying over my father-in-law. While I chide him for doing dangerous things I neglect to include myself in taking more precautions than I once did. 

I watch my peers bowing to certain aspects of aging. They do what they can but gracefully accept what they cannot. While I talk a good talk I still take risks that I should no doubt turn over to professionals or at least to my younger relatives. I should be okay with the idea that I don’t have to decorate my entire home inside and out in the space of a few hours. I don’t have to create exotic multi-course meals for Christmas Day. I don’t have to walk five miles before resting. 

I say the good things about having some common sense but then I sneak around like a teenager trying to recreate my days of unbounded energy. Then I fall into bed aching all over because I have been too filled with pride to act my age. I suppose that as the new year approaches perhaps I will once and for all practice what I preach to everyone else and admit to my changing status with grace. This may be the most important resolution that I have ever made. 

As my mother grew older she became so sentimental that her thoughts often brought tears to her eyes. She would think about her mother and suddenly she was crying, not in a sad way but in delightful remembrance of her relationship with her mom. She would speak of my father and her voice would begin to break. She watched Kermit the Frog singing Rainbow Connection and her eyes filled with the moist reaction that the song always gave her. 

I have tended to be stoic. While she wept with either joy or sorrow, I maintained my composure. I sometimes wondered if I would be able to brush my emotions aside if I allowed them to run free. I was the one with dry eyes at a funeral who then went home and cried for hours. While I sensed that my way of reacting to both good and bad things was not mentally healthy, I maintained my brave front by telling myself that nobody wanted to see someone fall apart. 

As I have aged I have changed, not just in appearance but it the ways that I handle my emotions. For the most part I no longer worry about either aspect of my being. I let my hair fly away and meet the public sans makeup. So too do I let my feelings express themselves as fully as they need to do. I find myself shedding tears during movies, while reading books and articles, and in front of others. I tell people that in my senior years I have become my mother and it actually feels so freeing. 

When I was decorating my Christmas tree this year my tear ducts were cleansed over and over again as I recounted the stories that each cherished bauble brought to mind. There were the Santa and Mrs Santa ornaments that my friend, Pat, bought for me at a quilt show long ago. There was the homemade ornament made from a Christmas card that featured a photo of my friend Linda’s two sons, Scott and Brian. There was the concrete orb that my son-law created in an engineering class act the University of Texas. There was the memento of our dog Red that my youngest daughter Catherine made when she was just a child. Ornaments that Marita brought to us from her vacation trips around the world made me sniffle as I thought of how much I miss sharing holidays with her. A host of Santas and silver bells from Cappy filled the barren limbs of the tree lighting up the branches with each one that I placed gently on display. 

As Christmas music played and I remembered all the Christmases past and the joys that they had brought me I felt the wonder of having an incredible life in spite of roadblocks and tragedies along the way. Each token was assigned to a person or event that was so delightful. I remembered reading the Harry Potter books and then donning decorations of Harry, Hermione and Hagrid on my tree. I smiled at the images of my friend Lisa’s two sons and those my grandchildren when they were just children. I laughed at my sparkling image of Bernie Sanders sitting with his hands encased in mittens with a mask on his face during the inauguration of Joe Biden. I recalled the fun we had at Christmas time when we visited Disney World and I purchased a set of Cinderella trinkets that have graced my tree ever since. I thought of one of the best Christmases ever when we travelled to Austria with Monica and Franz and they introduced me to the annual snowflake ornaments from Swarovski. Nothing anywhere on the tree did not evoke a momentary response that surfaced in the tear ducts of my eyes. 

It took me a long time to accept the moments when I lose my composure and bow to the demands of my feelings. I don’t linger in the sentimentality for too long but I always feel real when I do. For me the lighting of the Christmas tree is symbolic of my many years on this earth and the people and places and events that I have enjoyed. I would not trade the variety of it for anything. It provides an annual day of remembrance to me that is priceless. 

I know that times change and life moves forward. I have had to accept the inevitability of losing friends and family members over and over again. I’m trying to make the most of each day that remains for me with grace and love and even forgiveness for angry words. I like that I have finally become my mother.  

I remember nervously sitting on Santa’s lap and reciting what I wanted him to bring me for Christmas. I was one of those kids who wholeheartedly believed in him for a very long time. Then one day I knew that he was not real. Nobody ever told me the truth about where those gifts under the tree originated. Somehow I just reached a point of no longer thinking that the magic of Santa was tue. I played along with the ruse until my brothers came of age and no longer fell for the story as well. 

Once I knew that it was my mother who thoughtfully filled the space under the tree with delights for me and my siblings I felt a great connection with her generosity because I knew that her budget was small and yet she managed to find unique gifts that did not put her in debt. I often wondered where she hid all of those things so that we would not find them. Our house did not have many nooks and crannies that were secure enough to insure that our preying eyes would not stumble upon the gifts before December 25. Maybe she kept them in the trunk of her car. I never thought to ask how she pulled the whole thing off. 

Eventually I was in charge of being Santa along with my husband. I never had to inform my daughters that Santa was not real. They found the place where we had secreted the magical gifts, but never told us of their discovery. They went along with the ruse afraid that if they admitted to disbelief in the jolly man with the red suit they may not receive as many treasures on Christmas day. Eventually we simply transitioned to the idea that Santa was not going to come again because they had passed the age at which he stopped at our house. 

I have to admit that I still miss the wonder of it all. I vividly recall running to the living room with my brothers only to find that many treasures had been left while we were sleeping. I always knew which section of the display was mine because I was the only girl. I never thought to ask my brothers how they determined what belonged to each of them. I was too busy feeling elated that Santa had judged me to be good enough for his largesse. 

My youngest daughter told me that her eldest son still believed in Santa when he was in the sixth grade. His sister was worried that he might tell his friends what he hoped Santa would bring him certain gifts and be humiliated when the boys laughed at his naivety. She insisted that her mother needed to save him by telling him the truth and so came the difficult task of breaking it to the boy that the whole story of Santa was a myth. 

My heart was broken when I learned that my grandson’s reaction to hearing that there was no Santa resulted in him sobbing. He told his mother that it felt like someone had suddenly died. A kind of gloom settled over the occasion until my daughter told him that he would need to continue the tradition for the sake of this little brother. Somehow he liked the idea of being part of making someone else happy. He even thanked his mother and sister later as he realized that he would have made a fool of himself in front of his buddies had they not so wisely interceded. 

There are many arguments about Santa and whether or not we should tell our little ones that he is real. Some people never even start the tradition but most families with little ones continue the tale generation after generation. I suppose that it is an individual thing but I would not give up the feeling that that I had when I still believed in Santa for anything. The delight that those Christmas mornings brought me were immeasurable. Somehow I never felt betrayed for being the victim of a lie. Instead I came to appreciate the goodness of my mother who sacrificed so much so that me and my brothers would have a happy Christmas morning. 

It’s been a long time since Santa came to our house. We haven’t heard the squealing of delight from the voices of children for many years. Everyone has been grown for a long time. There are not elves on our shelves or visits to Santa at the mall anymore. Those photos of us and our little ones looking terrified as we sat on the old man’s lap are stowed away but somehow we all still believe in the magic and understand why we have such stories at all. It is a way of showing our love for each other on the very special day when we celebrate the birth of Jesus whose message for all time was for us to love. All of our traditions are symbolic of that one command that he insisted we must strive to achieve. 

Each December 25, when we gather together with our extended family I feel that Christmas spirit in full force. Love fills the room and laughter floats in the air. Santa still lives in our hearts.