Category: Giving

Shining the Light

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

The Big IdeaDuring Teacher Appreciation Week one of my educator friends posted a rant that had gone viral. The gist of the piece was that throwing crumbs of thanks at teachers once a year is insulting. The author went on to detail the abuse and lack of respect that teachers endure and to complain that nobody ever does anything to improve the situation. I suspect the op ed became as popular as it did because there was indeed a grain of truth in what the writer had to say.

Teaching is one of the most important and toughest jobs on the planet as anyone who has ever tried it knows. I would still be heavily involved with it were it not for its grueling nature. Quite frankly I no longer have the energy for the unrelentingly long days. When I was still working I was up at five thirty in the morning and often did not return until nine or ten in the dark of night. Even when I managed to arrive home at a relatively decent hour of five or six in the evening I spent most of my nights grading papers, tutoring students over the phone, conferring with parents and planning future lessons. I was lucky to finish by the time I needed to go to bed. Of course there were multiple school events on weekends and at night, not to mention the hundreds of hours needed to prepare for state and advanced placement testing.

Don’t get me wrong. I understood the nature of my profession and performed my duties with joy, but I was chronically tired. I especially enjoyed comments from those who didn’t know better that I was lucky to have a job that provided me with so much free time. I learned to just ignore such lack of understanding. I knew that nobody would believe me if I told them the truth about how hard my fellow teachers and I worked, but my family saw what I was doing. To this day I feel a bit guilty because I really did put my students before them time and again. They were troopers as the relatives of teachers generally are.

Teaching is truly a vocation. Few people would agree to spend a lifetime making far less than their peers in other occupations if they did not totally and completely love the experience. It punishes the body and the vast majority of teachers eventually require knee surgeries and suffer from bladder diseases all because of the daily abuse that comes from few opportunities to take care of their needs. The only time during a regular day that a teacher gets to relax is the thirty minute lunch that is really only about twenty minutes by the time getting there and rushing back to the classroom are factored in. Eating is a speed sport for educators.

Teachers are accustomed to hearing derogatory remarks about their profession. It’s especially disheartening because they put so much of their souls into every single day. Their students become their children, members of their extended family. They worry about them as much as they do their own. They let their kids burrow into their hearts and the sense of responsibility that they feel is as strong as that of a doctor with a patient. They have learned to ignore the barbs, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t hurt.

American society is somewhat unique in giving teachers so little prestige. In other cultures teachers are elevated in status. They bear noble titles and receive compensation equal to the amount of education, time and effort that teachers give to their work. I have had moments with my Vietnamese students in which their family members and friends actually bowed to honor me. Here we mostly get cracks about how bad our schools are and how only those who can’t do anything else become teachers. When announcing my profession to strangers I see the knowing looks that tell me that they consider my life’s work to have been very unimpressive.

I’ve been in my grandchildren’s schools quite a bit in the last few weeks. It is apparent that some of the teachers practically live there. When I am leaving at ten I know that they probably won’t get away until eleven. I see photos of some of my old colleagues who are still working at competitions that take entire weekends. Somehow few seem to notice how much teachers continually give of themselves.

When we retire it is not much better. Teachers in the state of Texas for example have not had a cost of living increase in their monthly pensions for over twelve years. Now the legislature is doing nothing to save the healthcare insurance for educators and they may face increases in premiums of fifty percent this fall. None of this had to happen but for the fact that teachers and their needs are mostly ignored. To add insult to the situation, those who like me paid enough into Social Security to receive monthly payments have an offset that takes most of what is due. Furthermore surviving spouses who receive pensions are not eligible to get spousal social security. It is a wonder that anyone wants to take on the job of educating our children.

So are teachers masochists? Why would they want to do this? Is it true that they are not able to do other things?

The answer is quite simple. The teachers who stay for the long haul are altruistic in every sense of the word. They care less about compensation and honors and more about making a difference. In their hearts they know that what they do day in and day out is important. While they appreciate acknowledgement, they do not require it. They do what they do because they value the idea of impacting the future by educating a generation. Even on the toughest day they feel good about what they are doing. There is a purpose to their work that not everyone has. The rewards come from those moments when they realize that their students have been elevated to new levels of understanding, or when they sense that they have somehow positively impacted lives.

I always said that when I retired I was going to work to bring more honor and respect to a career in teaching. I suppose that I haven’t really done very well but I plan to keep trying. I dream of a day when no teacher has to worry about making a living decent enough to provide for a good life both while working and in retirement. I would love for those one week teacher appreciation perks to become routine. There should be teacher discounts everywhere and they should be substantial. I will strive to encourage anyone who has ever been impacted by a teacher to make their gratitude known. Believe me, I am quite touched by those Vietnamese people who bow in my presence and I suspect that others would be as well.

I don’t think that those of us who are teachers need to complain because we all know that we love what we do and that is a gift that many people never enjoy. Still it would be well for our society to finally give educators their due in salaries, pensions and perks. It is a noble profession and its time that we all insist that it be elevated to the status it deserves.

A Mind Is A Terrible Thing To Waste

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

agy_rajz_radir-400x200There was an old advertisement that asserted, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” I’ve often thought of those words as I have seen more and more individuals afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease or dementia. Watching someone who once bore a quick wit slowly but surely become less and less aware is one of the saddest and most difficult aspects of growing older. It is especially hard on the caretakers of those individuals.

I used to possess a photographic memory. I was literally able to recall the exact page number and positioning of a fact from a textbook. I once answered a question on a history test while visualizing the caption under a photograph that contained the information. Back then I took my ability for granted, assuming that I would always be able to pull information from my brain with little or no effort. I have unfortunately learned as I age that I am less and less able to quickly find the information that I need from the recesses of my gray matter.

I’ve read that exercising the brain is as important as keeping the body healthy. Experts claim that performing mental activities regularly helps to keep forgetfulness at bay. That is partly the reason why I write daily and tutor young people in mathematics. Such activities force me to push my mind as much as working out on the elliptical activates the muscles in my legs. Nonetheless I all too often find myself groping for a familiar word or having to review a geometric definition for the umpteenth time. Just as my gait has slowed, so too has my mental acuity.

I don’t generally worry that I will somehow become less able to function with my mind because my genetics seem to be less inclined toward senility and more toward broken bones or gastrointestinal diseases. My grandfather was still reading and discussing lengthy history books at the age of one hundred eight and my mother was sharp and witty until the moment that she drew her last breath. I haven’t seen evidence of diminished brain capacity even among my aunts and uncles. Still I worry simply because I have seen so much of it in the families of my neighbors and friends.

There is a man who lives near me who is my age. He recently began to frighten me a bit because his behavior became erratic and he was making inappropriate comments. I found myself avoiding conversations with him because I truly wasn’t sure that I was safe around him. Soon enough another neighbor revealed that the unfortunate soul was suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s disease. His wife had asked that we not drive him to the store for cigarettes and wine as we had unwittingly been doing.

Not long after hearing the reasons why the neighbor was acting so strangely his wife asked my husband to drive her to the scene of a car accident in which he had been involved. She tearfully recounted how he had stolen her car keys and snuck out of the house in an attempt to run away. He only got a few blocks down the road before he had wrecked the car. He could not remember how to call home but luckily his wallet contained the necessary information to alert his frantic family. As my husband drove her she literally begged for advice as to how to deal with the situation. She has been attempting to work which requires leaving him home alone. She was beginning to realize that he probably was no longer able to fend for himself in her absence.

The plight of those who have brain disorders along with the members of their families are heartbreaking. I have a dear friend who cannot leave her husband without finding a kind soul who will watch him in her absence. Her life has become far more insulated that it should be at her young age. One of my aunt’s lives in a retirement community with a husband in his nineties who is mostly unaware of his surroundings. She and her sister care for him without complaint but I know that they are the kind of women who love getting out and about, a freedom that they rarely enjoy these days.

A woman that I have known for years now lives in Georgia in a small apartment caring for her husband whose mental and physical health has been severely stressed by multiple strokes. Her days are repetitive and she is far away from friends and family. She is very much alone in her labors save for the visiting nurses who come a few times each week to give her an hour or so to herself. I talk with her via Facetime as often as I can but she really needs so much more support and it is not very abundant.

Still another friend visits her ninety something mother at a nursing home multiple times every single day just to be certain that her mom is getting the care that she needs. My longtime friend is a true angel who rarely complains that she must schedule her days to include those regular visitations. When she does have to leave town she has to find people who are willing to perform her duties. Sometimes that means hiring strangers and hoping that they will fulfill the responsibilities properly. In truth her trips are tainted with worry because few people invest the level of loving care into the duties as she does.

None of us ever really know when we or a loved one might begin to slowly lose mental capabilities. There are foods that we might eat and physical and mental exercises that will help, but in many cases the onset is simply inevitable. As more and more baby boomers age the epidemic only grows, impacting so many lives. Paying for care is increasingly expensive and usually results in families spending the victims into poverty. Some care facilities will accept Medicare once the individual is literally dead broke, but others are reluctant to deal with the multitude of paperwork involved. Many of those with brain disorders therefore stay at home, taxing the resources and patience of family members.

We hear a great deal about the medical needs of young people which is as it should be, but the stories of the elderly often remain hidden and forgotten secrets. We don’t often think of the individuals like my neighbor who spend their days in a kind of confused state. He was once a rather entertaining fellow who enjoyed attending parties and regaling us with funny stories. Now he barely makes sense as he reaches into the recesses of his mind for words and ideas. He is incredibly healthy aside for his Alzheimer’s. He might otherwise have been out enjoying his retirement with hobbies and trips. Now he is confined to a life so unlike his personality and even our attempts to visit with him seem to fall on a kind of blankness in his mind. It is so difficult to communicate with him on any meaningful level.

As more and more people enter the years when such diseases begin to show their symptoms we need to fund the kind of research that will result in improved memory or even a cure. It is not just the afflicted who suffer but their families and friends as well. Perhaps it is time that we have a month dedicated to learning more about such debilitating diseases. Maybe our sports teams need to wear special uniforms to remind us of those who are suffering. Yes, the mind is indeed a terrible thing to waste and yet somehow we have so many whose essence is being slowly erased and we do so little to talk about what we might do to help.

The Secret

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

devil-in-the-white-mansion-556-1415558594.jpgI’ve been told that I should have been a psychologist or maybe a detective or perhaps a lawyer. I am a fan of murder mysteries and true crime. My interest in such things have not so much to do with enjoying the macabre as having a profound curiosity about human nature. People are fascinating to me and I often find myself wondering what leads someone to perform dark deeds. I have friends who are fellow travelers in my hobby of studying the facts in a murder trial or attempting to solve a crime. Among them is my godson who is only a fifth grader. He and his mom listen to podcasts on his way to school and among his favorites is Martinis and Murder. When I visited with him last week he and his mother recommended several movies and television series that I should watch. Among them was Foxcatcher, an Academy Award nominated picture based on the true story of John DuPont, a man from one the wealthiest families in the United States. It was a great film with a fascinating tale and incredible acting particularly from Steve Carell.

I mention this movie not so much to review it or to be a spoiler but to comment on the fact that even those who seemingly have everything are sometimes actually bereft. John DuPont was believed to have well over two hundred million dollars back in the nineteen eighties, an amount that is unimaginable to most of us. He lived on a vast estate, traveled in his own private plane and was virtually able to enjoy his wildest dreams and yet he suffered from a personality disorder that eventually devolved into mental illness. He had been alone and friendless for most of his life and seemed to be a disappointment to his mother. He struggled to find a place for himself in spite of philanthropic efforts designed to bring himself attention. He seemed to be an individual who was unable to connect with others and form healthy and loving relationships. In the end his life was a tragedy.

How often do any of us hear that money can’t buy happiness? Our next thought is that we would surely like to try our hand at proving that having a large bank account may in fact be the golden ticket to satisfaction. I know I’ve daydreamed about such things before. I imagine myself paying for college educations for my grandchildren and those of friends. I insist that I won’t change my lifestyle that much, but will just make a few renovations to my home and take some exotic trips. I plan to give large donations to the University of Houston and don’t exactly blush at the idea of having a building named after me even though I claim that I want my largesse to be anonymous. I protest that I want no attention drawn to my good deeds, and I only desire to possess a fortune so that the people that I know and love will not have to endure the stress of worrying about making a living and such. Of course, once I reflect on such ideas I realize that it is impossible to receive such a large windfall without having it change everything about my life, and I realize that I would never be ready for the attention that would surely come my way.

I suspect that there is something gloriously wonderful about the anonymity of being a regular working stiff that most of the folks who live in River Oaks or other such places never have. They have to constantly worry about people’s motives in befriending them. They are watched so closely that a bad hair day becomes a headline. They are criticized continuously for the things that they do or don’t do. They sometimes have to find ways to isolate themselves just to get away from prying eyes whereas nobody cares how I look when I make a quick run to Walmart or even that I choose to shop there.

I remember how shocked the world was when Jacqueline Kennedy remarried after her beloved husband John was assassinated. She made a curious choice in the person of Aristotle Onassis who was much older than she was and not known for his good looks. He whisked her and her children away to an island, however, which was no doubt precisely what she wanted for her family. He had the means to allow her to live for a time without the pressures that come from being a wealthy and famous celebrity. Hre children were able to grow outside of the limelight. It was a brilliant choice on her part and I suppose that she loved him for giving her this great gift.

After all is said and done we are all just human. It is certainly important to have enough income to have a home stocked with food and the basic necessities. It helps to be able to provide for our children’s educations and everyone enjoys the ability to afford a little fun now and again. Essentially none of us need millions or billions of dollars. What we do require is love and comfort. Abuse and heartache have no economic bounds. We tend to think that having more money will allow us to solve any problems that arise but time and again we are reminded that such is not the case. The darker side of our natures has been known to assert itself all across the financial spectrum. Somehow we find ourselves being more shocked when there is violence in a family of means than when it occurs on the so called other side of the tracks.

Some of the happiest people that I have ever known have had very little. Their wealth lay not in bank accounts, real estate holdings, or possessions but in their relationships. They are the souls who inspire us with their big hearts. What they have to give is compassion. I continually learn of the angels among us who perform good deeds that are astounding. They take the last of their paychecks to quietly purchase a wheelchair for the victim of an accident or to buy groceries for a family in need. They rarely mention their kindnesses. They do not look for gratitude. They teach their children the value of people rather than things. They enjoy the simple pleasures of long conversations with friends or walks on cool spring days. It doesn’t take much at all to make them smile. They love good jokes and laugh from the bottom of their bellies. They may have to pinch pennies to pay for an unexpected repair, but they choose not to worry because somehow they always find a way to get things done.

Our human experience brings us many emotions. We all have moments of suffering. Money if used in the proper way will most certainly eradicate some of our troubles and woes but it is never the panacea. How we feel almost always boils down to how we approach the realities that test us. If we believe that things are the secret to a wonderful life we will probably find disappointment again and again. It is in truly honoring every person that we encounter without ulterior motives or unrealistic expectations that we find the happiness that we seek, and that rarely costs a thing.

The Angels We Call Mother

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Baby-touching-mothers-hand.jpgWe each begin our lives inside our mothers’ wombs. We hear their heartbeats and share the nutrients they consume. We give them heartburn and send them scurrying to the ladies room so often that those jaunts become a form of exercise. Sometimes their hormones change so quickly and dramatically that they wake up feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Their bodies change with each passing week. They think that they look like beached whales, but everyone sees them as the beautiful women that they are. Their faces glow with the loveliness of anticipation. They laugh and stroke their bellies each time we kick or stretch our legs. We love them already because they keep us safe in the quiet little world inside their wombs. When it is time to leave our comfortable havens they must endure pain, but they don’t really mind. They are anxious to see us and to begin our lifelong relationships in earnest.

We depend on our mothers. They feed us and keep us clean and dry. They watch over us with love and deep affection. They are our first teachers and entertainers. They laugh at our antics and smile when they see our faces. They spend sleepless nights as we attempt to adjust to our new environment. We seem to be constantly hungry and in need of comfort, and they are ready to provide us with whatever we require. They do not complain. They are more than happy to spend so much of their time just loving us. They are our biggest fans. They enjoy our every move and think that we are remarkable simply for existing. They photograph us and record our milestones. They are our biographers and best friends.

Eventually we mature enough to walk away from our mothers. We go to school and interact with friends our age. We want to be independent, on our own. We think that we don’t need our mothers anymore. We assert ourselves and insist that we want to be left to fend for ourselves. Our mothers’ step back just a bit. They allow us to explore, but they are never really far away. They watch from a distance, ready to save us if we get into a precarious position. They still come into our rooms to check on us in the still of night. They provide us with the guidance that we need in spite of our objections. They love us more and more with each passing moment.

The day comes when we leave our mothers’ homes for good. We launch our careers and maybe even find someone to love in a romantic way. Perhaps we will have our own children and begin to comprehend better than ever just how much our mothers did for us. We see them in a different light as we realize the sacrifices that they made just so we might be comfortable and happy. We now share some of the feelings that they had. We understand their worry, their pride and their unrelenting love.

As we grow older, so do our mothers, but we remain their beloved children. Even as their strength and energy fails they fret over us. They need to know that we are doing fine. Their final thoughts are about us, and they pray that they have taught us well enough that we will carry on without them. Mothers give us the gift of themselves and provide us with both roots and wings.

One day a year is never enough to show our gratitude for our mothers. Somehow our efforts to honor them are never quite equal to the thousands of wonderfully selfless moments that they have given us, but we try nonetheless to show them how we feel if we are lucky enough to still have them here on earth.

I think of my mother often and miss her so. She had a smile and a laugh that lit up a room. She devoted most of her adult life to me and my brothers, serving as both mother and father after our dad died. Virtually every decision that she made was based on consideration of our welfare. She did a remarkable job of parenting and I doubt that we ever thanked her enough. I hope she knew that we thought that she had hung the moon.

I look at old black and white photos of my mother and I am stunned by how young she was when she became pregnant with me. In every picture she is a beautiful twenty year old beaming from ear to ear expressing her joy for all the world to see. Once I was born she carefully kept a record of my first teeth, my beginning steps, my report cards, my visits to the doctor for checkups. She wrote anecdotes about my personality and talents. Her pride jumps out from the pages of the lovely baby books that she so carefully created and preserved. That careful attention to me and later to my brothers would never wane. When she was taking her last breaths she made certain that we knew of her love. She asked my husband to watch over us in her absence, a job that he has taken quite seriously. She was as wonderful a mom as ever there was and she lives on in us and in our children and grandchildren. I see glimpses of her in each of them.

Perhaps there is no more important role that a woman performs than caring for a child and guiding him/her to becoming an adult. Our mothers form the bedrock of civilization. They do their jobs with little or no fanfare, not because they must, but because it is a pleasure for them. They love us from those very first moments when they learn that we are on the way and all the way into eternity. There truly are angels and they are the ones that we call, “Mother.”

The Numbers In My Head

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

numbersThis morning I sent birthday greetings to a school friend who turned sixty nine. I’ll be joining her in the last year of my sixties in November. The numbers that I carry in my head just don’t compute. My living aunts are now in their mid to late nineties. My children are well into their forties. I have grandchildren in college. Most of the time I feel much younger than I actually am, but then something happens that sobers me and sends me into a tizzy, like hearing that the son of one of my friends from childhood has died from a heart attack, or that a young woman that I once mentored at work is being treated for cancer.

I am at a somewhat lovely age in that I no longer have to report to work each day. I am free to travel or do whatever pleases me from hour to hour. I still possess almost boundless energy but when I exert myself too much my body reminds me that I am no longer a spring chicken. I’ve got arthritis in my knees and I administer a daily injection of an experimental drug in the hopes of producing stronger bones than the ones left in a lacy swiss cheese condition by my osteoporosis. I act as though I have all of the time in the world to fulfill the goals and dreams that I continue to create for myself, often forgetting that my time on this earth is becoming more and more limited. Those numbers in my head as well as the realities of our human existence talk to me in the dark of night and urge me to seize each day.

I have already lost so many friends with whom I spent my youth. In my mind’s eye I still see them as being vibrant and beautiful. They ran with me and laughed at the clock and thought little of illnesses or endings. It did not occur to me that they would be missing at the very time when we might have had the most fun together, when our labors were done and we were free to roam the earth in search of more adventures. Watching them leave has been difficult and has prompted me to think of my own mortality. Even worse have been the deaths of the children of my peers, the young adults whose passing seems so terribly out of sync with the way things should be. In a perfect world I have the ability to order from least to greatest. In truth occurrences are random in their probabilities.

Mostly I don’t dwell on such things, but there are moments when there is so much suffering around me that it is impossible not to face the facts of life. I realize that if I add multiples of ten to my age I become very old, very quickly. In my mind the nineteen nineties were only yesterday but they actually happened almost thirty years ago. Each day, week, month, year is flying by at warp speed taking me into a future that is more uncertain than any era in which I have so far lived. The dominoes of my life will begin to fall with greater and greater rapidity. I don’t want to think about those things until tomorrow, but they will surely come at a steady pace. The numbers in my head are truth tellers. The math leads to one and only one conclusion, and like J. Alfred Prufrock I rage against the dying of the light.

I want to be prepared for what lies ahead. I want to meet my fate with optimism and courage. I do my best to find happiness even in the darkest hours, but I now understand the fear and the anger that my best friend felt as she understood that her cancer was slowly stealing away her life. I am more open to being sympathetic to the relentless monotony of my aging aunts who are confined to wheelchairs and small rooms. I think of my mother measuring out her days as she grew ever more ill and weak, wanting desperately to leave me with her wisdom. I was confused when my hundred year old grandfather continually spoke of being tired and missing all of his friends and loved ones. I had little patience with the thought of surrendering to fate. I viewed myself as someone who might be dancing jigs right up until my very last breath. That was, of course, before I witnessed people my age being cut down by illnesses that changed them. They had once been warriors like me and it was incongruously difficult to imagine them bedridden and unable to take on the world by storm as they always had. The numbers caught up with them just as they will one day do with me and everyone else that I know, which means that I must begin to focus more and more on what is really important. I have to face the fact that I do not have forever.

People are always more important than things, but things steal our time and energy. When the clock is ticking we have to choose what to push aside. That visit that we speak of making needs to be put on our calendars today, ahead of the cleaning and the repairs of our stuff. Those thoughts that we have wanted to express must be recorded now, not after we take out the trash. The dishes will wait but the call to someone important may come too late if we hesitate. The numbers are there, telling each of us that there is a limit to the count of the days that we each have on this earth. We have to make the best of every single moment before we are no longer able.

I suspect that I may sound a bit morose today. I am thinking of the lost opportunities that I had to celebrate with those who are now gone forever, the moments when I was too preoccupied to really listen to what they had to say. I wrongly believed that there was plenty of time and that I had far more important tasks to perform than lingering just a bit longer with them. Now I see. Now I understand.

My life has been all about numbers. I am a mathematics teacher. I have told my students that the ciphers and algorithms never lie. They link us to both the past and the present. They explain the workings of our world. Now the numbers tell me to embrace the beauty of love and friendships every moment of every day. They remind me of the limits that I am approaching and of the need to prioritize my energies. The numbers will eventually terminate, just as they should. My faith tells me that I will one day find the infinite peace of everlasting life, but until then I must listen to the gentle whispers of the numbers chiding me to live with gusto and an open heart.