Category: Tolerance

The Honor of Work

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Mexican_Fruit_Pickers_(7618119180).jpgWhen I work in my yard I go all in. I usually end up with dirt smeared on my face and caked under my fingernails. Sweat runs downs my neck and my hair sticks up in all directions. There is nothing pretty about me in those times. The work is hard and often leaves my muscles aching and my back shouting at me in pain. The truth is that I overlook all of those things because I love being a weekend gardner so much. I can feel bursts of serotonin taking me to a happy place in my brain. Still, I think of my grandparents who themselves worked on farms day after back breaking day. I imagine how difficult it must have been for them to rise early and routinely toil in the sun. For me the labor is a hobby, one that I have the power to ignore anytime that I tire of the effort. For them it was the means of earning money to pay for a place to live and food on the table.

My grandparents’ descendants have done well. We generally have professional occupations that allow us to work in air conditioned buildings and bring home salaries good enough to pay others to do most of the back breaking work that we require if we so wish. We purchase our fruits and vegetables from Sprouts and have enough income for luxuries that they never even dreamed of owning. I feel their spirits when I am on my hands and knees caring for my plants while the sun beats down on my head. I frequently stop to savor a cold drink when I grow weary. I survey land that is my own, not the property of someone else. I remember and appreciate all of the things that they did so that one day all of us who came from their blood, sweat and tears would have a far better existence than they had.

I see beauty in the tomatoes, oranges and other produce that lines the bins at HEB. I don’t take such delights for granted because I understand the drudgery that people endured to bring those items to the markets where I shop. There were individuals who picked the fruits and vegetables hour after hour, day after day as long as the sun was shining. They were paid little and only received monetary rewards for full bushel baskets and bins. Their work was routine and tough on both body and soul. They are the nameless men and women whose plight has almost always been ignored throughout history. At one time they may have been slaves or indentured servants. In other eras they were the poor like my grandparents. Today they are mostly immigrants who toil from farm to farm, season to season in search of jobs that few of us would want.

I once traveled to a small town school to work with teachers who were struggling with the Hispanic children in their classrooms. They complained that the sons and daughters of migrant workers were skewing the test scores used to appraise their effectiveness as educators. They referred to the parents “the tree cutters” and insisted that these uneducated people didn’t care enough about their kids to realize the importance of schooling. It didn’t seem to occur to the baffled teachers that the mothers and fathers who worked so hard were in fact incredibly dedicated to their children, so much so that they were willing to do even the dirtiest of jobs. I was saddened by the ignorance of people who should have known better than to treat a significant portion of their student body as stereotypes. Even after my partner and I had shown them how to reach their charges they appeared to be as adamant as ever that the children of these hard working people were an inconvenience that would have preferred to simply wish away.

Most of us who live in the United States of America enjoy a level of plenty that might have made our ancestors feel wealthy. We are provided educational opportunities that were not afforded them. It was not uncommon in my grandparents’ day for youngsters to rarely attend school after the third or fourth grade. Sadly in many parts of the world even today people struggle to meet their most basic needs and even to feel safe. They are chronically hungry and suffer from health problems that are rarely addressed. We on the other hand are a nation that has mostly forgotten what it is like to live the way so many of our grandparents and great grandparents actually did. The conditions under which they labored are now mostly deemed illegal. 

I watched a group of students perform in the one act play, Gut Girls, not long ago. It addressed the working poor at the beginning of the twentieth century. It featured young women who worked in meat packing plants where the conditions were deplorable. I found myself imagining my grandfather who did a similar job for all of his working days. His legs became riddled with varicose veins and more often than not he was in pain but he never missed a single day of work. He boasted to his children that he had managed to feed them all the way through the Great Depression and keep a roof over their heads when others became homeless. He was proud to have regular work no matter how difficult it may have been and his children do not recall a single time when he complained. He endured his aches stoically.

There is great honor in hard work. We should celebrate anyone who is willing to devote time and effort to making an honest living. The person who collects our garbage is important just as the clerk behind the counter of a fast food restaurant is. The janitor is as indispensable as the manager, maybe even more so. We need our engineers and our electricians, our professors and our plumbers. The yard man who sculpts my lawn each weekend is always reliable and willing to do whatever is needed to make my home a lovely place to be. I truly don’t know what I would do without him. 

After a day of manicuring my plants, my hands are shouting at me with the sting of cuts and scrapes and bruises. They remind me to be thankful for what I have. They tell me to appreciate all good people everywhere. They urge me to be more generous and kind. But for the grace of God I might just as well have been born in another place or time that would have demanded more of me than I have ever had to expend.

Fish Sticks

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

vp-sticks-beauty-shotI’ve seen a great deal of change during my life that I tend not to even think about most of the time. I am a Catholic and until I was a teenager there was an ironclad rule that none of us were to eat meat on Fridays. The idea behind that ruling was that Jesus died on that day of the week and in remembrance of his suffering we were to abstain from meat as a kind of penance and sacrifice. In 1966, the year that I graduated from high school, Vatican Council II amended that dictate to require only that Catholics avoid eating meat on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday and all Fridays during Lent. A council of bishops later clarified the church’s stance on the consumption of meat on Fridays by suggesting that all Catholics over the age of fourteen perform some type of penance on every Friday of the year with avoidance of meat being one of the suggested forms of meeting that goal. For all intents and purposes the vast majority of Catholics today are no longer concerned about whether or not to eat meat on Fridays. The times of worry about sinning by eating a hamburger are long gone for most who follow the Catholic faith.

I remember the old days when my mother did her best to create menus that did not contain any form of animal flesh. We’d often have tuna fish salad or pimento cheese sandwiches and sometimes she would prepare my favorite grilled cheese. Old standbys were tomato or cream of mushroom soup with slices of bread. We never had access to nice varieties of fish after my father died so the chief version of seafood that hit our family table was in the form of fish sticks, a staple that American Catholics kept afloat for years. Sometimes Mama would use butter rather than bacon to prepare scrambled eggs or she would boil the fruit from chickens and make egg salad. Shrimp was too rich for our budget and we rarely went out to eat but when we did it was usually to a cafeteria and on Fridays our entree was always fried fish.

Some of my aunts and mothers of my friends attempted to become a bit more creative by putting together tuna casseroles and topping cheese pizza with tuna as well. I tended to prefer my mom’s less ambitious Friday efforts that made no bones about eating simply at the end of the work week. Somehow she made those tuna sandwiches and stacks of pancakes seem more exotic and delicious than the pot roasts that she sometimes prepared on Sundays.

When meatless Fridays became a thing of the past for most of us we often joked about the people who had cheated by enjoying a thick steak when they were supposed to be dining on chicken from the sea, and wondered if they were going to stay in hell for their transgressions or if there had suddenly been a release of centuries of Friday meat eaters into heaven. We also watched our liturgies and ways of doing things change rather dramatically in one fell swoop as our mass was finally recited in English rather than Latin, and the priest faced us rather than showing us his back. It was all so democratic and inviting. Suddenly we began to imagine a Jesus who walked among people rather than elevating Himself as someone more special than the rest of mankind.

One of the traditions that had always irked me was that women were required to wear a head covering inside the church. For that reason our school uniforms included little brown beanies for use whenever we attended mass or other religious ceremonies. As we grew older we were allowed to exchange the ugly headgear for chapel veils that perched lightly on our bouffant hairdos without destroying the effect of the coiffures we had created. I vividly recall the silliness of women placing sheets of Kleenex on their heads whenever they arrived at church without the requisite hats or veils. It was commonplace to see the thin white paper hurriedly pinned tightly to strands of hair in an attempt to show respect for the occasion. I had to stifle my laughter at the ridiculousness of the whole idea. Somehow I didn’t think that God cared a wit whether or not a woman was showing her beautiful hair and eventually the church leaders agreed with me and dropped the archaic requirement.

Of course the changing of the rules was not always met with complete agreement. There were those who were horrified that the old traditions were going the way of the buggy whip. They bemoaned the use of English in the mass and declared it to be almost profane. They continued to wear their hats and kept up the practice of avoiding meat on Fridays. They could hardly bear to look at the face of the priest smiling down at them during the mass, preferring to view his backside instead. It took a bit of convincing to get the naysayers to calm down but at the same time there were also those like me who began to question more of the ideas that seemed to have little or nothing to do with the message of love that Jesus so eloquently preached. We insisted that our church become ever more inclusive and less rigid in its dictates. That lead to a great deal of rebellion particularly in the United States where even the most faithful Catholics now sometimes debate the need for many controversial practices.

Still there are those who tend to be nostalgic regarding the old ways. The conservative versus liberal dichotomy is alive and well in the religious world. I remember listening to a man of my age who regaled us with memories of how much he enjoyed the old fish stick days, and how he wished with all of his heart that they would return. He thought the women looked nice with their long sleeved dresses and pretty bonnets on their heads. He longed to return to a past that seems rather quaint and perhaps even a bit unfair today, but I can’t concur. I think of the fact that none of those old fangled rules were created by Jesus but by men who simply came up with ideas that over time that may have once made sense but not so much today.

Now we are allowed to go to church wearing slacks and some even go so far as to show up in shorts, which may be pushing the envelope a bit too far. Few women wear hats and luckily they no longer have to worry that some over zealous cleric will pass over them at communion for the sin of wearing a dress without sleeves. Eating a burger on Friday is no longer a condemnation to hell, if it ever actually was. The edicts concentrate more on ways of living than dress and what is consumed for dinner. Still there are many questions that for now remain unanswered for those of us who see remnants of laws that seem to be out of touch with the compassion that Jesus always demonstrated so freely. Perhaps the time will come when they too are deemed to be unfair and even unnecessary.

I am a woman of great faith but I have trouble with most organized religions that cite edicts that are manmade interpretations of the word of God. I believe that religion is at its best when it is kept as simple as possible. Over and over again Jesus defied many canons that he found to be without merit. He healed the sick on the Sabbath. He befriended individuals who were deemed to be undeserving outcasts. He walked among the lepers, the poor and the suffering. His message seems very clear to me and it is not one of exclusion of anyone. Instead it is one of unconditional love. I believe that as long as we follow His example as best we can, we are on the right track. Sometimes we sadly get so caught up in attempting to judge that we actually lose our way. Instead of worrying about how we look or what we eat we are on the right track when we welcome all.

Forgiveness

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

lent-easter-2780As a young Catholic girl I observed lent with earnestness but not much thought. I received ashes on the first Wednesday of the season, abstained from eating meat on Fridays and made the grand sacrifice of giving up sweets of all kinds. In reality it wasn’t that difficult to do because we never had sugary things around our house. Anything like a piece of chocolate or a bag of cookies was a rare treat. The truth was that I simply carried on as usual but gave myself a pat on the back for being good enough to totally insure that no sweets would pass through my lips during the forty days before Easter.

As I matured I learned that a far better exercise during the lenten season was to reflect on the way in which I was leading my life. After all, that is what Jesus did when He traveled into the wilderness. I realized that following His example was a much better way of honoring Him. I spent more time reading spiritual tracts and designing plans for becoming a better person. One of the things that I thought about a great deal is forgiveness. Jesus Himself made the ultimate sacrifice of His life to atone for our sins. Even as He hung on a cross He forgave those who executed Him along with one of the thieves who was crucified next to Him. It’s always been difficult for me to even remotely imagine the betrayal, abuse, brutality and pain that Jesus endured at the time of His death and yet His final act was one of compassion and absolution. In the death of His humanity He taught us how to be more Godlike.

It is so difficult to set aside our anger and hurt in a willingness to completely pardon someone for transgressions against us. We hang on tightly to our negative feelings, nursing them as though they somehow make us stronger. We are scornful of those who in their seeming weakness seek to bind old wounds and provide second chances. Ours is a world that seems to prefer unrelenting warriors over those who offer mercy. Peacemakers are not as much in vogue as crusaders. Diplomacy is trumped by force.

Our politicians only rarely dare to stand for what they personally believe to be right rather than adhering to a prescribed political platform. These days it is odd to see someone going against the groups to which they belong. We can’t seem to find enough understanding to realize that very little that happens in real life can be easily defined by hard and fast rules. We have all too often distorted the messages of the messiahs who created various religious sects. The idea of unconditional forgiveness is sometimes deemed to be hypocrisy, cowardice, a lack of real moral compass. Many among us have become judgmental people with unwaveringly self-righteous indignation. Thus is the root of so much trouble in the world today.

We insist that our republicans and democrats battle with one another rather than unite in common causes. Anyone who even suggests that they might find ways of compromising is cashiered out of the discussions. We prefer a stew of anger, distrust and sometimes outright hatred. We have religious groups who easily condemn and ostracize certain individuals and groups rather than attempting to demonstrate acceptance of differences. They preach a kind of ugliness that seems to counter good faith. Friends and family members turn their backs on one another, unwilling to forgive and forget slights and misunderstandings. They grow apart and turn unkindness into hatred.

All of the rancor and distrust is toxic and in its most extreme form leads to killing an innocent man on a cross for His thoughts or placing people in gas chambers for their religious beliefs. It leads to murder and war. It destroys relationships and rips families apart.

Perhaps the season of Lent was meant more than anything to be a time for forgiveness and mercy, a time when we work to repair rifts that have occurred in our lives. It is so easy to love and embrace those who think like us and agree with us. It is far more difficult to feel a sense of kinship with someone who has been cruel or in opposition and yet our challenge is to reach out to those very people.

Those of us who are Christians believe in our own redemptions, given as a gift to us from our Savior. Somehow we too often see ourselves as being exempt from a need to pardon our fellow men and women as well as ourselves from the imperfections that we all possess. One does not have be religious at all to understand the necessity of working together in the community of mankind. If we accept the complexities of living and admit that everyone makes mistakes we are more likely to demonstrate a willingness to embrace even those who have hurt us in the past.

We don’t have to be naive in attempting to reach out to our transgressors. There are certainly situations in which it is all too apparent that nothing that we do will overcome some evil other than imprisoning or extinguishing it. We had to defeat Adolf Hitler or he would have continued his murderous rage but there is little reason for us to push a former friend out of our lives simply because he or she has disagreed with our philosophies.

I have to admit to feeling unfiltered hate for George Wallace when I was young. He always seemed to be snarling and spewing the ugliest forms of racism. He was as despicable as anyone who ever governed others. I felt no sympathy for him when his wife died of cancer nor did I shed a single tear when he was gunned down in an assassination attempt that left him wheelchair bound for the rest of his days. Somehow I reveled in the karma that seemed to overtake his life with a vengeance. I hoped that he would rot away in pain and suffering but that is not how his story ended.

Wallace was unable to care for himself. That job was left to a black man of great faith and spiritual strength. He catered to the former governor’s every need and he also demonstrated a kindness of spirit that was unlike the ugliness of his boss. Day after day he treated Wallace with dignity and respect and in those interludes the two men began to talk and form an unlikely bond of friendship. Somehow the caretaker transformed the very soul of George Wallace until one day all of the former governor’s hate was stripped away by the love that had been accorded him. In a dramatic turn around Wallace asked his valet to take him to a church to speak with the very people whom he had once derided as being inferior and unworthy of even basic human rights. At that moment he wanted to apologize and so he ultimately did. It was unconditional love that brought about his stunning change of heart and it taught me that mercy often has the power of changing even the most hardened heart.

Goodness has always had more power than evil. In this season of lent rather than giving up something perhaps it is best that each of us make the biggest sacrifice of all, setting aside disagreements and forgiving someone who has heretofore been a source of anger and dislike. Think of how much change would occur in just forty days if every single one of us were to find enough compassion to mend even one relationship. Forgiveness is the sacrifice that we should all seek.

Finding Courage

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

confusionI have written a book. It has essentially been finished for more than two years and yet it languishes in the memory of my computer and in a distant hard drive that is protecting it lest my laptop suddenly crashes. If I were to take the time to do so I might have it uploaded as a Kindle or Apple book in less than a week. I would be a published author albeit by dent of my own initiative rather than interest from a company. For some reason I have been reluctant to take the final risk of revealing my story to the public. Upon self reflection I realize that my procrastination comes from enormous fear. Even though I place my ideas on public view five days and week, when it comes to my most personal essay ever I feel anxious about being misunderstood.

We live in a very contentious society. Words are continually being parsed and twisted into meanings that were never intended. Good people are all too often portrayed in very misleading and untrue ways. We take sentences out of context and figuratively burn people at the stake for having the temerity to suggest something with which we do not agree. We place our own interpretations on all utterances often to the detriment of what is actually true. Our sense of self-righteousness and judgmental natures have no bounds. It takes great courage to come forward in a very public way and so far I have to admit to being somewhat of a coward.

The topic of my book is quite delicate. It outlines my family’s journey through the tragedy of my father’s death and into the despair of my mother’s battle with bipolar disorder. Because we each perceive reality in different ways I have little doubt that my telling and interpretation of events my vary from others who shared some of the moments that I describe. They may disagree with how I have seen things and even feel betrayed that I have even spoken of some of our very private moments. I suspect that there will be those who do not understand that the intent of my book is to inspire and comfort anyone who has ever had occasion to deal with the complexities and difficulties of mental illness. It is not to embarrass or be disloyal.

Even in our very modern era we tend to have somewhat primitive reactions to mental illness. We do not understand the many forms that it may take. We still hide such diseases and too often treat them as personal defects rather than medical conditions. Our ignorance is indicative of our unwillingness to bring discussions of mental difficulties out into the open. If I mention that my husband has heart disease nobody recoils but if I speak of the bipolar disorder that so tragically invaded my mother’s brain I can visibly see the discomfort on people’s faces. Such conversations often stop abruptly because as a society we are not yet ready to face the realities of conditions that cause our brains to work differently.

There were times when my mother’s illness was quite frightening. She was consumed with paranoia and unable to complete even simple tasks. She became a victim of the delusions that raced through her brain and it was exhausting for her and for those of us who attempted to help her to get the care that she needed. She was not bipolar, she had bipolar disorder. The difference in the wording is significant. She was never defined by her illness. There were times when she appeared to be a very different person but she was merely exhibiting symptoms of her diagnosed disorder. Her true essence could only be found when she was doing well and the ravages of the depression and mania were not affecting her thoughts and actions. Most of the time with diligence on the part of everyone she was able to function in what we often describe as a normal fashion. At other times she experienced setbacks much like anyone with a physical problem might have. It often took time to return her to good health. Her condition was chronic. Like diabetes it could be controlled but it was never going to just miraculously go away.

My mother did nothing to create her illness. It did not come from bad habits or wrong choices. It was a disease that infected the chemistry of her brain without her consent. Her psychiatrist once told me that she might have never had a psychotic experience had my father lived. She may have just appeared to be a bit eccentric, a little manic or melancholy now and again. The stress of losing her husband and being a single parent to three small children only increased the likelihood that her bipolar disorder would become more pronounced without intervention. Since none of us had any idea that she was walking around with a time bomb slowly building up pressure inside her. We were all shocked when she had her first breakdown. It was an event that none of us were able to understand. We would have known what to do if she had been diagnosed with cancer but our knowledge of mental diseases was nil.

For years I was silent about my mother’s condition. Only those closest to me knew the extent of her countless breaks from reality and our efforts to get her the help that she needed. She herself denied that she had bipolar disorder, instead insisting that my brothers and I were being brutally cruel and unfair to her. She was very good at hiding her symptoms from other people but doing so was tiring for her. She often missed work because she worried about being unmasked. She did not realize that her coworkers had figured out what was happening and they quite lovingly allowed her to play out her charade. They were exceptionally good people who alerted me each time that she began to show signs of becoming ill again. They were courageous allies in our family’s fight to keep our mother as healthy and independent as possible.

These are the kinds of things that I want my book to portray. I want people to understand that mental illness is a legitimate medical condition and that each person afflicted with it responds differently. I believe that if we are ever going to effectively treat such disorders we have to become very honest about the mere fact that they exist. We have to teach the public how to cope with such situations in loving and rational ways. Right now we are a long way from being where we need to be but I believe that the more we are willing to learn, the more likely we are to bring such diseases out of the shadows.

Right now there are millions of people suffering needlessly simply because neither they nor those who love them understand that mental illnesses can affect anybody and that they are not signs of weak character. Having a mental illness does not mean that someone is doomed to an abnormal life any more than having cancer is a death sentence. We still have much to learn about how and why such illnesses affect individuals. I believe that with determination we may one day eradicate many of the mental disturbances that now wreak havoc on so many lives, but we have to have open minds and a willingness to honestly dialogue about the realities of mental illness if we are ever to bring the kind of relief and understanding that we need. We have to have courage, something that I am attempting to find inside myself so that I will be willing to share what I believe to be a very important and inspiring story.

The Brotherhood of Man

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

frederick-douglass-1852The first slaves were brought to North America in 1619, when the colony at Jamestown, Virginia was formed. It was not until 1863, that all slaves were freed by President Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. If you quickly do the math you begin to realize that there were slaves on our soil for two hundred forty four years before that barbarous practice was finally outlawed. It is difficult to even consider how anyone might  have ever believed holding another human being in bondage was anything other than immoral. Even considering that times and ways of thinking were different doesn’t seem to absolve the ignorance and evil associated with that custom. The old argument that it was legal so it must be okay trumped common sense and the concerns of religious groups and abolitionists. Those who advocated freedom for all people were often considered overzealous kooks who simply did not understand the complexities of the situation. Most citizens simply looked the other way rather than honestly face the horrific realities of slavery. It was easier to keep it in place than to insist that it be abolished forever.

As with all of history there have always been courageous individuals who have been willing to endure unremitting criticism in a quest for what they believed to be right and just. Frederick Douglass was one of those people. Douglass was born in Maryland in 1818, and named Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey. He was a slave who had little memory of his mother who was traded away while he was still a baby, a common practice designed to keep enslaved people from forming strong attachments to one another. Frederick was moved from one master to another over time. When he was twelve the wife of one of his owners taught him the alphabet and the basics of reading. From this humble beginning he stealthily taught himself how to read and write, often glimpsing newspapers and books when no one was watching. For the rest of his life he believed that “once you learn to read, you will be forever free.” In that spirit he taught other slaves how to decipher the words of the Bible when they came to Sunday school. Once the owners learned what was happening they put an end to the lessons by beating the congregants and disbanding the services for good.

Eventually when Douglass was sixteen years old he ended up in the hands of a man known to be adept at breaking the spirit of slaves. The overseer beat Douglass mercilessly but the sixteen year old fought back in both body and mind. He had already read enough to understand fully that his imprisonment was morally wrong and he became more and more determined to find a way to freedom. After multiple attempts he finally managed to make his way to New York City where he was protected in a safe house run by David Ruggles. He was twenty years old and eager to advocate for other slaves still held in bondage. The year was 1838. It would be twenty five years before Douglass saw his dream of emancipation come true.

Frederick married a free black woman whom he had previously met and they settled in Massachusetts. It was at this time that he chose Douglass as his new last name. He quickly became known as an eloquent orator and writer among abolitionists and was often featured at gatherings of anti-slavery groups. This was a difficult route to follow. He and those with whom he worked were often the victims of violence. Still he dedicated his life not only to abolishing slavery but also to advocating for the rights of women to vote noting, “If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle. Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.”

Douglass was a highly religious man who openly criticized those Christians who remained silent about slavery saying that their refusal to speak up for what was right and just was an abomination of the teachings of Christ. “Here we have religion and robbery the allies of each other – devils dressed in angels’ robes, and hell presenting the semblance of paradise.”

By the outbreak of the Civil War Douglass had become one of the most famous and outspoken black men in the country with his views being published and discussed in gatherings across the globe. His influence was so great that he often conferred with President Lincoln whom he was not loath to criticize for taking too long to free the slaves. He worked tirelessly to secure the passage of the 13th, 14th and 15th amendments which outlawed slavery, provided citizenship and equal protection under the law and protected all citizens from being discriminated against in voting.

Douglass continued to work for causes of fairness and equality for another twenty five years after the war had ended. He understood that there was still much to be done and many injustices to be overcome. He wrote for newspapers and authored books. He spoke all over the world reminding people that “where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.” 

Frederick Douglass died at the age of seventy four of a heart attack or possibly a stroke.  He had energetically fought for the rights of all people for his entire life admonishing his fellow man to consider our shared humanity. “A smile or a tear has not nationality; joy and sorrow speak alike to all nations, and they, above all the confusion of tongues, proclaim the brotherhood of man.”