Category: Death

Beloved of God

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

ali1My early years at the University of Houston were marked by a highly charged political atmosphere. I was there during the height of the Vietnam War when young men the same age as I was had to register for the draft. Attending college gave them a temporary deferment as long as they were full time students, and made passing grades that allowed them to continue to progress toward a degree within a reasonable timeline. Back then the intensity and stress normally associated with the college experience was exacerbated by the threat of losing that deferment and being called to serve in the army. For many avoiding the draft was simply a matter of not wanting to be forced to serve. For others it was a matter of principle, namely that they did not want to participate in a war that they thought to be unwarranted and unjust. Others were strict pacifists who would not have wanted to fight under any circumstances.

The university was the site of protests and political speakers on a regular basis and for those of us who were against the war there was ample opportunity to meet with like-minded individuals to voice our concerns. I had analyzed the situation and found little reason for the United States to be involved in the conflict unfolding in Vietnam. It had begun as a civil war between opposing political factions and ideologies and the United States had originally only intended to provide support to the democratic government of the south. By 1968, however, our nation had become hopelessly mired in the fighting with our youth being sent a world away to a war whose purpose few really understood. By the time that I was a college student the country was hopelessly divided over the issue of whether or not we should be sending troops to Vietnam. The divisions would ultimately destroy the reputation of President Lyndon B. Johnson and show its ugliest side in riots at the 1968 Democrat convention in Chicago. 

While my concerns about the political atmosphere of our country often outweighed my interest in my studies, I was only peripherally involved in the student efforts to voice our point of view. I knew many of the key players in the anti-war movement at school but mostly just attended meetings and went to hear speakers who came to our campus. I was particularly excited when I learned that members of the student government had secured a visit from Muhammed Ali and that he would speak at an informal gathering inside the Cougar Den. I knew that I had to be there.

Back then the Cougar Den was little more than a wooden shack nestled under a grove of trees to the left of the Ezekiel Cullen building. It was a dark, noisy, smoke-filled and always crowded room under the best of circumstances. On the day of Muhammad Ali’s visit it was a madhouse as students eagerly jammed inside hoping to get a glance of the greatest boxer in history. When a good friend and I arrived we realized that we would be lucky if we were even able to hear him speak much less actually see him. Fortunately fate intervened on our behalf. My friend was an incredibly beautiful and popular coed and as we were jockeying for a decent place to stand we encountered an officer of the Young Republican Club who had a huge crush on her. He offered to take us both upstairs to the organization’s headquarters where we might stand along the railing and watch the proceedings from a bird’s eye view. We eagerly followed him and the location proved to be perfect.

When Muhammad Ali entered the room a respectful hush fell over all of us. The mere sight of him was mesmerizing. Here was a man who had risked everything by refusing to be inducted into the army. With the famous words, “I got nothing against no Viet Cong” he had refused to step forward when his name was called to be drafted. His actions had resulted in the loss of his boxing title and the inability to fight in many places. He was threatened with five years in prison and had to pay a stiff fine. He would be involved in an appeal for the next many years, citing his Muslim religion as the reason for his pacifism. For some he was seen as a traitor but to those of us who believed that the war was wrong, he was a hero of the highest stature. On the day that I heard him speak he appeared to be godlike and was truly the greatest in my mind.

Muhammad Ali’s appeal would go all the way to the Supreme Court where his conviction would eventually be overturned. He was cleared to resume his boxing career and he went on to have a legendary career that is spoken of with reverence to this very day. His presence, his confidence and his style was unlike anything that the public had ever before seen. Even his detractors had to admit that he was an incredible man. 

I was never a fan of boxing so I can’t say that I followed Muhammad Ali’s career very closely. I had uncles who loved to watch the matches that were broadcast on television but I was never interested. One of those uncles had gone to see George Foreman train here in Houston. I remember his unmitigated excitement when Foreman was slated to fight Ali in Manilla. He was convinced that it would be one of the best contests ever and it indeed became one of those sporting moments that boxing fans would never forget. In the searing heat Muhammad Ali pushed George Foreman to a state of exhaustion and then knocked the giant off of his feet to secure a victory that stunned the world.

I suppose that what I admired most about Muhammad Ali was his integrity. He was a man who lived the principles that were the foundation of his beliefs. He was unafraid to speak even when the truth was difficult. He was a warrior for social justice and a peaceful man. When Parkinson’s disease began to ravage his body he demonstrated courage and grace. I’ll never forget the moment when he carried the torch to light the Olympic flame at the games in Utah. He was already frail but he bravely ran up the ramp as though he were holding the light of the world for all of us. He was as beautiful as he had been when I saw him as a young lion those many years ago.

Muhammad Ali became an example and spokesman for those of us who are nameless. He never varied from his determination to make the world a more tolerant and peaceful place. From his days as Cassius Clay in Louisville, Kentucky to his most triumphant moments the public knew that he was indeed a remarkable man. At a time when a black man dared not speak out lest he be punished, Muhammad Ali refused to still his voice. He held his head high and reminded us that he was beautiful and great. He would proudly boast, “I am Muhammad Ali, a free name – it means beloved of God, and I insist people use it when people speak to me.”

Muhammad Ali was beloved, not just by God but by people the world over. He taught us the importance of faith, family and conviction. Now he may rest in peace. His battered body will hurt him no more. He is with God and moving like a butterfly in his heavenly home.

Begin With the Little Ones

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

csp-shaken-baby-syndrome

Yesterday my niece posted a photo of her eight year old daughter lying in bed grieving over the death of a special little kitten. The image was heartbreaking because it illustrated the depth of the little girl’s feelings. She was so obviously bereft. Her mother sweetly acknowledge the youngster’s emotions, noting that the child was only eight but appeared to have the sensitivity of someone far older. Because my niece is a wise and excellent mother she was more than prepared to acknowledge and deal with her child’s sorrow. I have little doubt that the beautiful child will be able to work out her feelings under the loving guidance of her mom.

Sometimes we adults tend to believe that there is a sliding scale of human emotions running from one to ten with ten being the most powerful. We assume that children’s feelings lie somewhere along the lower end and that only adults are capable of feeling the full force of sorrow. The truth is that children are just as likely to endure the maximum impact of difficult situations as older individuals but they don’t always know how to understand or even express their pain. Quite often they either act out in ways that appear naughty or they withdraw into a world of confusion. Unless an adult recognizes that their behavior is a sign of inner turmoil, they may end up repressing thoughts and feelings that need to be expressed.

Like the my niece’s little girl I was only eight when I experienced a great loss, the death of my father. There was a swirl of activity around me as friends and family gathered to console my mother. She was, of course, quite bereft and almost incapable of functioning. She was in a state of shock for days and only managed to pull herself together because she was determined to care for me and my brothers. She was above all a loving mother. Unfortunately almost all of the well intentioned adults seemed to believe that I was far too young to even comprehend the magnitude of what had happened much less have strong feelings. When they came to help my mama they shooed me outside to play. They thought that I needed distractions from the whispering and crying that was unfolding inside the house. Their intentions were good. They truly believed that they were protecting me from the harsh realities. They did not realize how much I needed to be part of the grieving process.

I was feeling tortured and confused. I desperately wanted more than anything to talk about what had happened to our family. I spent my days barely holding together with an act that convinced everyone that I was totally oblivious. At night when I believed that nobody was listening I cried myself to sleep. My thoughts were so unresolved that for a time my personality changed. I became fearful and hyper-responsible. I somehow felt that it was up to me to be a very good girl for my mother’s sake, even as I wanted to scream and act out.

I suppose that it was natural for the grownups caring for me to think that my lack of response to my father’s death was proof that I was too young to have a concept of what was happening. They were probably even relieved that I appeared to be so passive and unconcerned. The reality was that I was in dire need of counseling but nobody ever picked up on that fact. I dealt with the terror inside my head on my own, sometimes convinced that something was wrong with me.

Over time I reflected on my situation and my personal feelings and I was able to self-heal. Reading and observing led me to understand and console myself. I eventually overcame the poisons that stayed so long in my mind but I suspect that I have a few more scars than I might have had I been given the opportunity to talk with a kind and caring adult who was willing to value my emotions and assure me that I was normal.

I suspect that my life-long love of working with troubled children has been a way of coping with my own inner demons. I have found that all that little lost souls sometimes need is someone willing to listen to them with respect. Our understanding of the human mind has evolved even in my lifetime. We now realize that children are as emotionally complex as adults and that in times of trauma they require the kind of gentle and loving care that my niece has afforded her little girl. We no longer underestimate the powerful emotions elicited by loss. We have come to realize that each of us no matter the age reacts to tragedy and trauma in ways that must be addressed and honored.

Most schools today are staffed with counselors and observant teachers who watch for signs from their students that something is amiss. Modern day parents talk openly with their little ones and have age appropriate discussions about the life and death situations that affect them. Children are generally allowed to express themselves in quiet and safe conversations.

We have come a very long way in understanding the human psyche but there are still terrible problems in our society. The young man who began a shooting spree here in Houston over the weekend had served in Afghanistan. Family members said that he had come to believe that society was about to collapse. I have little doubt that what he had done and seen in war had somehow broken him. There is no telling what was going through his mind. The sad truth is that our veterans are suffering in particular. Each day there are far too many of them committing suicide or considering acts of violence. We have let many of them down by neglecting to help them to deal with the stress and the terror that they have endured. All too often we send them back home to deal with the upheaval inside their minds without the assistance that they need.

There has been a worldwide argument over whether or not the gorilla at the Cincinnati zoo should have been killed but I haven’t heard anyone mention the needs of the young child who created the furor. He may not be able to express what this event did to him but I can almost guarantee that its impact will be dramatic. I have known children who were subjected to horrific abuse when they were infants and toddlers. They were unable to recall the details but somehow felt the enormity of the pain well into their teenage years. Their anger and confusion often expressed itself in outbursts, sexual promiscuity, depression and violence. They had been damaged and nobody had taken the time to help them properly heal simply because it was thought that they would not remember what had happened to them.

We must love, cherish and protect anyone who endures tragedy. Without the proper unpacking of the varied thoughts and emotions that result from harm or loss, repressed feelings may lead to horrible consequences. It is right and good to understand that even the smallest among us need understanding and the opportunity to express themselves. It is not up to us to judge the way that people react to life’s experiences but to allow them to honestly express the emotions filling their heads. Sometimes all we need do is acknowledge how beautiful and sensitive they are. We need to check on them as they progress through the stages of recovery. We must let them know that it is not just okay but quite normal to grieve or be angry. Mostly we need to love them.

Go Forth in Remembrance

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

k10304515Memorial Day on the last day in May has come to represent the beginning of summer even though the laws of astronomy give that designation to a different date. It is a three day weekend holiday designated by Congress. There are few better times to buy mattresses or large home appliances. People flock to the beach on this day and gather around swimming pools and barbecue pits. American flags fly from the porches of homes all across the land. For many the true intent of Memorial Day has become lost in a haze of celebration having little to do with what this national holiday was originally intended to be.

The Civil War left our nation broken and bereft. Over 600,000 Americans had lost their lives in the conflict. People in both the north and the south attempted to heal their wounds and sorrows with annual tributes to those who had fallen in battle. The homage sometimes included parades but the main focus was to be found at the grave sites of the soldiers who had been killed in those terrible battles. Family, friends, and sometimes even sympathetic strangers would bring flowers to the cemeteries. Some even carried food for picnics and held solemn vigils. These were days of remembrance and honor that went by different names and occurred in different times and places.

Three years after the conclusion of the Civil War an organization of Union soldiers, the Grand Army of the Republic, established Decoration Day to be held on May 30 to honor those who had died in the Civil War. It is believed that this date was chosen because it coincided with a season when there is always an abundance of flowers. After World War I President Woodrow Wilson declared that the day be forevermore known as Memorial Day and that it be a time of remembrance for all soldiers who have died in the service of our country. It was not until the nineteen sixties that Memorial Day was set to occur on the last Monday of May to create a three day weekend associated with the national holiday.

Over a million members of the military have died while engaged in active duty. It is a staggering number and yet the vast majority of Americans today have little or no experience with losing a loved one or a friend in a war. Talk with individuals in their sixties, seventies, eighties and nineties, however, and there will be more and more eyewitness stories of young soldiers lost in World War I, World War II, the Korean War and the War in Vietnam. While those conflicts seem to be almost ancient history now, for those who saw the blood being spilled, the memories are as vivid as the actual events.

I have watched my father-in-law cry when reluctantly relating stories of fallen comrades in the Korean War. I have friends who speak of relatives who came back home dramatically changed from the War in Vietnam. They tell of husbands and fathers who still have nightmares because of what they saw. My mother’s eyes used to fill with tears as she told of school chums who never returned from battlefields across Europe and the Pacific. I have run my fingers across the names of school buddies whose bravery is forever proclaimed on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington D.C. My great grandfather did not die in the Civil War but he was charged with burying the dead after the Battle of Shiloh and official documents tell of the horrific nature of his duties.

Today our armies are staffed with volunteers many of whom continue to die in faraway places for a cause that we all too often don’t really understand. These young men and women are our first line of defense in an uncertain and often frightening world. Somehow they find the courage to carry out missions that most of us would be too frightened to do. When they die their families and friends suffer great loss. Many times those of us busy with our own lives are all too unaware of the great sacrifices that they have made.

War is hell and always has been. It would be so wonderful if we humans somehow managed to resolve our differences in peaceful diplomatic ways. For whatever reason, even our best efforts to avoid conflict are challenged again and again. We may want to isolate ourselves from the necessity to spill blood but history has shown us that we are sometimes given no other choice than to defend ourselves and lose our human treasure in the process.

I used to naively believe that one day mankind would evolve to a point at which the killing would forever stop. A lifetime of observing human nature has convinced me that there will always be some form of evil in the world and that sometimes we have to cut off the head of the serpent to save the innocent. Thank God for those with the courage and the willingness to do what must be done, even understanding that their efforts may result in death.

We must never forget the brave souls who gave their lives so that we might retain our freedoms. We may not know their names or be related to them in any significant way but we have benefited from their acts of courage nonetheless. There is no greater love than a man or woman laying down his/her life for another. It is incumbent on us to spend some time today reflecting on such sacrifices.

If you have children don’t fail to talk with them about why we have this holiday. Far too many of our youth are sadly ignorant of the real reason for our celebrations. It is up to us to teach them to remember and honor those who gave so much in the long arc of history. Simple gestures can be powerful reminders. Our children understand symbols and they like to hear stories.

My son-in-law and my grandchildren awoke early this morning to place American flags throughout their neighborhood. It is a ritual that they have repeated for many years now. I am proud of them for doing this in memory of our fallen heroes. It displays a special reverence that we as a nation are sometimes in jeopardy of losing. We must not equate respect for the dead with unbridled nationalism. It is the duty of present and future generations to never forget the true cost of war. Every life that is lost represents dreams that will never come true. If we honor those who gave everything, they will not have died in vain.

I have read that in our nation’s capitol the flag is raised on this day in the early morning and then lowered to half staff to remember all of the soldiers who have died for this country. At noon the flag is raised again to represent the glory of our nation that has resulted from their courageous deeds. I encourage you to both remember and celebrate. Go forth and enjoy the fruits of the sacrifices made for all of us.

Life is Shiny and Awesome

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

13165981_10206207146842968_828197429741817811_nI’ll be the first to admit that the end of May through the beginning of June is not my favorite time of year. In fact, I tend to dread this period, for it cycles through the dates when each of my parents died. I’d love to be able to tell everyone that there comes a moment when I actually forget the trauma of Memorial Day, 1957, when my father was killed in a car accident, but that would be a lie. For fifty-nine years I have felt the same pangs of loss that I experienced way back when I was only eight years old. The fact that my mother died quite suddenly and unexpectedly on the very day before I was to celebrate my retirement five years ago, only compounds my solemn mood as I watch the calendar head to those two terrible anniversaries.

Of course I have learned how to cope and move on. It’s what we all must do, but somehow the sorrow that I felt upon the deaths of the two people who gave me life lingers in a back corner of my mind. The scars of those events have healed but the calendar annually reminds me of the magnitude of my loss and I experience a tiny itch of sadness. The faded memories return and always among them is remembrance of how wonderfully understanding my Uncle William was when my father died. It was he who took the time to check on me and my brothers amidst the confusion and chaos of that day. It was he who showed us what real love was when we needed it most. Ironically decades later it would be his son, Paul, and his granddaughter, Jan, who would lift up our hearts with stirring tributes to our mother at her wake.

The lovely spirit of Uncle William lives on so beautifully within the hearts of Paul and Jan. They are both special souls who bring a pure and innocent kind of sincerity to every situation. Like Uncle William they are both wise and far stronger than people might suspect. They provide me with important links to my past, stalwarts for the present and promise for the future.

Jan has seen her own share of tragedy of late. Perhaps the most shocking event was the death of her cousin last summer. In what seemed a horrible replay of my father’s death, Jan’s cousin was killed while on vacation in a freak motorcycle accident. He was young, full of life and Jan’s special confidante. He had a family that loved him and so much more that he needed to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen and yet it did, leaving Jan bereft beyond measure.

Jan and her family have struggled for months to deal with the emotions that have stalked them. In an almost unbelievable turn of events her mother’s father died within weeks of her cousin’s passing. Because she is such a loving person, Jan’s grief has been almost unbearable to watch. Somehow she has managed to keep herself together because she had a very specific goal. She was in the midst of earning a Masters Degree in Communications at the University of Houston. The demands of her coursework was unforgiving. She had to keep studying, researching, writing papers and defending theses. Somehow it was in the work that her healing process began.

I suspect that Jan still wishes that she might have one more conversation with her departed loved ones but she also knows that they would have insisted that she continue to move forward, and so she did. She graduated in early May with her degree and a host of honors. Somehow I saw in her the image and spirit of my Uncle William. He ever so quietly and humbly lived a most remarkable life. He was not as learned as Jan but he brought so much to every single interaction, even with strangers. He delivered mail in the same neighborhood for years and made a point to know the people on his route and to treat them with dignity and respect. He did odd jobs here and there so that he might provide his family with special treats. He always carried fifty cent pieces to give to us children and he often insisted that we have ice cream to celebrate even an ordinary day.

Jan is so much like him. She lights up a room with her generous spirit. My mother adored her and would have been touched beyond imagination to hear Jan’s praises. Jan is bound for a wonderful life just as my mom always said she would be.

On the occasion of her graduation Jan shared what she thought to be “wise nuggets” that demonstrate the depth of her character. “It’s what I’ve lost that makes me so incredibly thankful for what I have. It’s what I haven’t achieved that pushes me to achieve more. And it’s what I wait for that makes me excited for the future. I may be a dreamer, but I can guarantee that I will do anything in my power to achieve it, whatever it may be. Life is confusing and messy. You hit a few bumps and that frustrates you. Then, you see this light, and it’s awesome and shiny (because you life shiny stuff). What appears from the light? See, that’s the beauty part of life, you take the good with the bad until you reach that shiny light to find out what is there. Take the good with the bad and hold on to those you love.”

I imagine my mother, my Uncle William and all of the other folks who have always loved Jan are feeling rather proud of her right now. I know I am. I can’t wait to see which one of those six pending job offers she ultimately lands and where her journey will take her. One thing that I know for sure is that she will be not just fine, but remarkable.

Congratulations, Jan! We love you with all of our hearts. You bring us joy with your presence. You have a huge fan club and we plan to hold on to you with all of our might. You are truly shiny and awesome.

When We Would Rather Cry Than Smile

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

EmotionsMost of us go about our business each day quietly bearing burdens that we rarely mention. We tend to downplay our worries and sorrows, instead displaying a stiff upper lip and carrying on as if nothing has happened. When things become too much for us and we feel broken, we may find ourselves unable to keep it together. We experience a moment when we confide our woes or shed tears without the usual filters that we place on our feelings. Then there are those among us who always manage to keep a public face of strength and optimism even when they feel as though they are dying inside. We each have our unique ways of dealing with death, disappointment and hurt.

In today’s world there are so many avenues for venting our feelings, sometimes anonymously. We may adopt a pseudonym and comment on Disqus without anyone ever knowing who we are. We write in our diaries and journals and then lock them away for nobody’s eyes but our own. It is when we take our thoughts to the places of public discourse that we open ourselves to the slings and arrows of misunderstanding and criticism. Casually written words lack the meaning and nuances of a one on one conversation. Our ideas become twisted into the perceptions of someone who doesn’t really understand us. There are no intonations or facial expressions to bring subtlety to the discussion. It becomes difficult to clarify our intent after the fact or to exclaim, “That’s not what I meant at all.” Once we have to defend ourselves the true effect of what we had hoped to say is lost. Others have decided who we are.

Most people use public discourse to simply keep in touch with the outside world. They maintain a lighthearted front and may even be just naturally happy and optimistic. Their posts show us the wonderfulness of their lives. They stay away from political commentaries or any subject that might be misconstrued. They have learned how to be wary of revealing too many of their private thoughts. We sometimes wonder if their worlds are as truly perfect as they seem to be.

Braver souls continually allow us inside their heads. They have learned that this may be a dangerous thing to do but don’t appear to worry about what others may think. If they voice their beliefs they are likely to anger those whose thoughts are different. If they open their hearts and let us see their pain and suffering some will turn away in discomfort. It is risky to be honest about how we really feel, especially when the emotion that is ruling us in a particular moment is anger. Many among us prefer not to see the fears and uncertainties that are a part of each and every one of us and yet it should not be so. The truth is that no matter how hard we try to create perfect images of ourselves, the time comes in all lives when we only want to cry or scream or lock ourselves away in the dark. We feel a profound need for human compassion and understanding at the very times when we feel the most uncertain that it will be available to us. Sadly, we are sometimes ignored, spurned and even judged by how we react to life’s horrors.

Mike and I watched a documentary on Friday called The Flat. It was an innocuous title for a moving film. It all began when a young man’s grandmother died in Tel Aviv. He and members of his family gathered at the apartment where his grandmother had lived to help with the task of culling through her possessions to determine what was worth keeping and what needed to go. It soon became apparent that the home was a treasure trove of memories and history that opened up many questions about who the deceased woman had really been. The young man, a filmmaker, began an emotional journey along with his mother that would take them back to Germany.

The story itself was intriguing but I was even more fascinated by the way that the people dealt with their emotions. The young man became intensely curious about his grandparents’ past that had always been mysteriously left unmentioned. His mother insisted that what had happened to her mother and father before coming to Tel Aviv was in reality none of their business. She insisted that her parents only wanted to move forward in life and that she had respected their wishes, never probing to find the missing pieces of their stories.

As the tale unfolded the young man was visibly moved at every turn. He was upset that his grandmother’s prize book collection seemed to be worthless to everyone save himself. He grieved to learn that his great grandmother had perished in a concentration camp. He wondered aloud how his own mother might be so cavalier about all of their discoveries. She in turn continued to act as though she had been unaffected by the revelations that had been so surprising to her son. Sadly not even the more emotive son appeared to notice that his mother’s eyes told a story far different from the one that she tried so hard to portray. They displayed a deep and enduring sadness that was impossible to hide.

Grandmother, mother and son each approached the world in differing manners. The elder woman lived as though her life had never been touched by unspeakable tragedy. Her daughter respected those wishes, never asking painful questions. She simply played along with the pretense out of respect. The grandson was from a different generation. He needed to know the truth and to grieve for a family that he had never truly known. Thus it is with all of humanity. We choose different ways of reacting to life.

I am not an expert in the psychology of emotions. I’m not certain what kind of behavior is best. I suspect that it must be very difficult to maintain a steadying composure even in the face of tragedy. A stiff upper lip may serve well at work but to also maintain it in private must be truly painful. Likewise respecting another’s choices is something that we all must do from time to time but denying the way that we really feel is no small task. I suspect that allowing the natural God given feelings that we all have to come to the surface is the healthiest way to live. Admitting that we are feeling despair or anger in a given situation is akin to accepting that we are human. It does not seem necessary or even healthy to always be strong.

It really is okay to sometimes admit that we feel lost or even unappreciated. There are things that happen that make no sense, that seem so unfair. We can’t be expected to accept every aspect of our fates with smiles. It is appropriate that we “rage against the dying of the light.” It makes sense that we admit to how much we miss someone who is gone. Our feelings are very real and if we embrace them when they are appropriate, they will help us to overcome the most difficult moments of our lives.

My mother’s psychiatrist once told her that the sadness and depression that she felt after her mother died had nothing to do with the depression that was part of her bipolar disorder. He encouraged her to cry over the loss of her mother, noting that in doing so she was demonstrating just how normal she was.

We should not fear our emotions. Each of them was given to us for a valid reason. We simply need to learn how to embrace them appropriately. Nobody is immune from experiencing the entire range of feelings during a lifetime. We should celebrate those who are courageous enough to free themselves from the artificial constraints that our society sometimes imposes on us. There is no dishonor in letting the world know that, at least for the moment, we would rather cry than smile.