Category: Tragedy

Become the Helper

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

mental health

An oft overlooked aspect of our current times is the psychological destruction that is infecting minds as silently as the coronavirus enters our bodies and makes us sick. There is so much happening all at once and the fact that we cannot seem to agree on much of anything only compounds the difficulties of dealing with the anxieties that are plunging many individuals into a state of distress. Any one of the issues that have come to the fore would have been cause for concern. When all of them are blasting our society at once it is akin to a violent storm, an earthquake and a tornado all happening at the same instant. Little wonder that my friends who are counselors are feeling exhausted and overwhelmed by the stories of patients who are struggling to maintain a sense of balance and safety.

At the same time there are those lucky individuals who appear not to have been affected by anything that is happening. They have retained their jobs and their fine incomes. Nobody in their circle has become ill with the virus. They have few interactions with minorities so they do not feel the urgency of the Black Lives Movement or DACA. They do not have an elderly parent, relative or friend in a nursing home whom they are not allowed to visit. They have not seen how a preponderance of bad luck can lead to depression, addiction, despair. The people in their world are happy and eager to get back to vacations and all the rituals of summer. They are blessed and enjoy the bounty of their good fortune.They post images of themselves having a good time as though life is as wonderful and normal as ever. They are generally good people who simply do not know how much suffering the pandemic has created because it seems to have little to do with the worlds in which they live.

In truth there are many layers associated with the mental health issues that are making a difficult time even worse for those who are struggling to maintain a grip on hopefulness. There are people who lost their jobs in early March who are panicking because their searches for work have been fruitless. In the beginning they felt confident that the unemployment help from the government along with assistance from in the form of temporary loan forgiveness would carry them through until they most surely would return to their careers, but as the weeks and months have gone by far too many are still unemployed. They see the patience of the nation dwindling for their cause. They have calculated that they are on the verge of destitution and perhaps even homelessness if nothing changes within the next few weeks. Even though they have always been hard working and reliable they are questioning their own worth. They feel abandoned, alone. They are losing the confidence that was once their trademark.

There are elderly individuals who have been sequestered inside their homes for so long that loneliness has overtaken them. They feel forgotten. Worse yet when even the political leaders who should be encouraging them suggest that they are on their own with regard to staying safe from the virus they worry that they will be confined to a kind of homebound imprisonment for an undetermined time. Because they understand that the number of years they have left on this earth are dwindling with each passing month they worry that their final moments will be lonely and secluded from the joy of human contact.

There are those already burdened by mental illness or addiction. They have had to get their therapies remotely. Somehow the positive effects of talking with a caring professional has not the same under such circumstances. Their days have come to feel bleaker and bleaker and their minds play all of the psychological tricks on them that create the kind of chemical imbalances in their brains that cloud their thinking. At times life seems almost unbearable and sometimes they even act on such thoughts.

The problems of our Black citizens have taken center stage but even as they voice the concerns that have stalked them unrelentingly they see that far too many refuse to listen or understand. They wonder why it is so difficult for people to comprehend what they are trying to say. They relate the stories of their lives with honesty and then are accused of overreacting, expecting too much. They see people wanting to wish them away, hoping to sweep their cause under the rug. They wonder how many more years they will have to pay for the sins of slavery, because it is they who have paid the price of a heinous practice that is somehow defended year after unchanging year.

A toxic political climate fueled by those seeking power has divided us so badly that even friends and relatives who love one another are on edge. They choose up sides and steadfastly retain their own beliefs even when evidence suggests that they may be wrong. In many ways we are all being played and we somehow know it but nonetheless deny that we are affected. It grinds away at our sense of security. We question ourselves and each other. Some among are reduced to abject sorrow.

We have drawn back a curtain that has shown us an ugly side of our natures, an aspect that we had managed to mostly ignore before the stakes became so high. While we are grappling with our personal difficulties and with each other we sense that somehow it did not need to be this way. We might have all been feeling confident that together we would solve all of the problems that face us. Instead it feels as though we are engaged in battles on multiple fronts all alone. It is every human for himself/herself and so the numbers suffering from psychological disorders are growing, leaving a toll that is as distressing as Covid-19 and the battles for equity.

It is time we each took a deep breath and eliminated our tone deaf tendencies. People are dying of broken hearts and minds. We need to step back and assess the damage that has been done to them and then begin the process of working together to set things right. Look around you. Find the suffering and become the helper that they need. 

I Must Do More Than Pray

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Bible_Cover

I am a religious person but not nearly as spiritual as some that I know. I try to do better and I talk to God all the time but I know that I have much room to grow in my faith. I don’t pretend to be a theologian and I’m hardly a master of the Bible. My little niece, Lorelai, is better versed in the books and chapter and verses than I will ever be. I spent twelve years taking religion classes in Catholic schools and I picked up the essence the teachings of Jesus over time. Somehow I have always thought that His message was profound but simple. To me it has always been summarized in His commandment that we love our neighbors as we love ourselves. This should not be that difficult to do and yet all of us stray from that dictum over and over again.

Jesus also told us to judge not lest we be judged and yet it as always seemed to me that those of us who are Christians are often the very first to to shake our heads in judgement whenever we witness behaviors that we disapprove. It is so difficult to set aside the haughtiness of self righteousness, a sin of which I am particularly guilty even as I write these words. I suppose that Jesus understood quite well the frailties that we humans possess and so he attempted to teach us about the things that we were most likely to do wrong.

I have been asking Jesus to help us all these days. My heart is heavy with grief and anger over the plight of Black Americans in an era when we should be well beyond the injustices of the past. I’ve been overly judgmental of family members, friends, and strangers who can’t seem to understand what is happening in the Black Lives Matter movement. I am livid about our president and his tone deaf response to what is happening. I do not understand why he thinks the way he does, nor why he cannot see how divisive his comments are. I tell myself that it is not up to me to judge him or anyone else. That should be God’s work and only God will ever really know what to make of his heart. Still I think that as a Catholic Christian I have a right to speak out when I disagree with him.

A church building is sacred to me. It has always been a place of refuge and peace. I do not take lightly the power of community and love that it represents and so it is with the Bible, a book that I know I should read more often. We swear to tell the truth on the Bible. We seek direction for our lives in the Bible. We hear about the life of Jesus in the Bible and hopefully we model on lives on His example as described in the Bible. For that reason I do not think that either a church building or the Bible should be treated without great reverence and respect.

I did not agree with President Trump’s bravado in speaking with the nation’s governors earlier this week. I felt that his use of words and invoking of military terminology as a means of controlling the violence and looting associated with the protests was like throwing gasoline on a fire. There are ways of preventing and controlling illegal actions without resoring to extreme measures. I would rather have heard him taking the time to show more compassion for those who are angry. I would like to see him attempting to listen and understand rather than talk and command. There is no weakness in averting chaos with understanding and love. It is possible to be a guide toward good, a model leader of character and concern and that is what I hoped he would be. We need to hear him providing concrete ideas for eliminating discrimination. 

I have prayed because I do not have all the answers. I have prayed because maybe I am wrong but my heart tells me that berating governors and bragging about dire consequences for those who do not tow the line is abusive. People might fall in line for someone who threatens them with punishment but such harshness will only intensify their feelings. We do not need a nation that silently bears grievances only because it fears to suffer the ire of the very person who should be helping to make us feel safe and honored as people. 

I did not like that a peaceful crowd in front of the White House was cleared with tear gas just so the President could strut across the street to a church that he has never once attended and hold up a Bible for a photo opportunity after he had just humiliated our governors and threatened the protestors with grave repercussions. If it was not a travesty it was at least a moment of embarrassingly bad taste. It certainly dashed any hopes that I might have had for the show of healing and human kindness that I believe our nation desperately needs.

I keep praying to Jesus. I feel his love and comfort and I thank Him for the blessings that  have filled my life. Still I implore Him to help us. I ask Him to show me what I must do for surely my thoughts and prayers are not enough. I will continue to blog. I will cast votes in November. I will work for what I feel to be right. I will ask Jesus to bring peace and justice to our country.   

His Life Was Profound

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

27georgefloyd-videoSixteenByNineJumbo1600

I think it is time to look for a moment at the life of Floyd George. He was born in North Carolina but grew up in Houston’s third ward, an area that I have known since my childhood. I hate to admit it but when I was just a youngster in the nineteen fifties it was often referred to with a very racist and ugly description using the “N” word followed by “town.” We often drove through the area on the way to my grandmother’s house and even as a small child I noticed the poverty and horrific conditions. I even recall asking my parents one time why we made black people live away from us and why they had separate schools and public facilities. I was told that it was just the way things were and that we all had to follow the rules. It was one of the few times that I did not think that my parents had hung the moon. Even as a seven year old I somehow understood that the treatment of black citizens was unfair.

George Floyd, or Floyd as his family and friends called him, would have been living in the third ward at a time after segregation. He was young enough to have been my son and I might have taught him at school had he and his family moved just a bit farther down the road in the southeast part of Houston. Instead he grew up in a part of town where people often struggled to make ends meet. He found a place for himself in athletics at Yates High School where he was the tight end on a football team that went all the way to the state finals. He also excelled at basketball and when one of his coaches landed a job at South Florida State College he was recruited. His college career only lasted two years but his coach and the coach’s wife would always remember Floyd as a sweet and gentle soul who made them smile.

Floyd stayed in touch with all of his old teammates many of whom enjoyed success as professional athletes and coaches. They had a kind of brotherhood from their high school days that kept them close even as the years passed. Floyd struggled to find his own success and to care for his wife and family. Eventually he had a brush with the law and spent five years in prison. He paid his dues and became determined to clean up his life. A buddy convinced him to relocate to Minnesota for a new start and Floyd saw the opportunity as one that might be just the ticket he needed.

Floyd was a good man with a big heart. He had learned from his own mistakes and he wanted to teach young people the importance of eschewing violence and seeking a good and honest life. He worked at a restaurant and club as a security officer and supplemented his salary there by driving a truck. His bosses and the customers he encountered all remember him as an optimistic sweet and happy soul who would have taken the shirt off of his back to help someone in need. Life seemed to be working well for him until Covid-19 struck and he lost his jobs.

We know the rest of Floyd’s tragic story all too well. By way of video we were eyewitnesses to his death. We saw the gentle giant breathe his last as a police officer calmly kept him pinned to the ground even as he struggled to hang onto life. It was an horrific end to a story that is all too often repeated in our society but rarely played out so publicly. Still there is so much more to George Floyd than we will ever see. He is so much more than a tragic victim of police brutality.

His family is in a state of disbelief that their beloved brother, cousin, father would have died in such an horrific manner. His friends who played with him at Yates High School wonder how this could have happened to such a kind person. Even his second grade teacher remembers a sweet  little boy who so seemed to be heading for a promising life that she saved samples of his work. Nobody who knew Floyd thought of him with anything other than admiration. He was in their words the kind of person who was always helping, alway protecting and somehow when he needed help and protection most it was not there.

George Floyd is coming back home to Houston this week. The alumni association of Yates High School has already honored him as the fine athlete that everyone knew. His family has asked that everyone respect his peaceful nature when using him as a symbol. The Houston police force wants to provide an escort for his funeral just as they would if an officer had fallen. The people back home are heartbroken that one of our hometown citizens had his life ended so tragically. His death hurts us all.

George Floyd is so much more than just symbol of discrimination and its effects on black lives. He was someone who was loved. He was joyful, someone who encouraged and supported everyone that he met. He liked to give hugs. He was someone whose impact on people was profound even before that fateful moment when he died. Let us not forget his vibrancy. Let us remember him with love.

We Must Lead Ourselves Into the Promised Land

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

chicago-anti-war-protests-1968

I began my personal journey through the pandemic back in March. When I decided to write my thoughts on what was happening in my tiny corner of the world I did it to leave a record for my grandchildren and great grandchildren yet to come. I would have liked to have had a written day by day account of how the Spanish Flu of 1918 affected my grandparents, but of course they were too busy simply surviving to have the luxury of journaling about their experiences and thoughts. Neither of my grandmothers were literate and both of my grandfathers were laborers who only got paid when they showed up for work. I feel certain that they simply pushed through that pandemic hoping that they would stay well so that they might provide for themselves and their families.

My writing has not so much been an unbiased historical account of Covid-19 as a depository for my feelings. In describing what I see happening I almost naturally draw on a lifetime of experiences and perceptions. At first I viewed the virus as a kind of adventurous challenge. I would surely show my mettle in being able to stay well and navigate through the restrictive days of isolation. I saw it after all as mostly a matter of staying busy and creating purpose for myself, but over time my emotions overtook my resolve. I looked outward and saw suffering on a grand scale. It became more difficult to simply enjoy the quiet time in my home when the numbers of sick and dying steadily increased. These were people and I could not even begin to imagine how their lives had been turned upside down. My goal became less and less about protecting and entertaining myself and more and more about doing whatever I needed to do to flatten the exponential curve of disease.

I was bemused and saddened as I saw great rifts developing within our population over how seriously to take Covid-19. I am a mathematics teacher and from a family of engineers and scientists and doctors. I suppose that I am inclined to make decisions based on research and data from experts and so it seemed ridiculous to listen to anyone other than those respected for their work with medicine. As the anger in the nation grew and armed citizens stormed state capitols I found myself harking back to the year in which I married.

It was 1968, and at nineteen I was far too young to be making a lifetime commitment and yet events from that year had convinced me that reaching for love was the best decision I would ever make. In that fateful year Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. Not long after presidential candidate, Robert Kennedy, was gunned down following his primary victory in California. The year was filled with student protests and when the Democratic Convention was held that summer in Chicago things turned violent as protestors clashed with the police. I would always remember 1968 as both the year that I married and perhaps the worst year in the country’s history during my lifetime.

At my wedding the priest who gave the homily spoke of how much courage and optimism it took for two people to look to the future given the violence and divisions that seemed to permeate every corner of the nation. He applauded Mike and I for demonstrating the certainty of our love in uncertain times. I felt and understood every word that he spoke and prayed on that evening that peace and justice would one day become the rule for America.

Now more than fifty years later I was spending day after day inside my home with Mike and we both somehow felt as though what was happening was profoundly worse than anything our country had endured in our lifetimes. Little did we know that in the very week when the nation recorded its one hundred thousandth death that ghosts from our past would rise once again.

I wonder how it can be that only about a week ago we watched in horror as police officers took the life of George Floyd in a brutally cavalier fashion. He was only forty six, young enough to have been one of my children. He had grown up in Houston, my hometown. He attended Yates High School and played on their football team. By all accounts from those who knew him he was a sweet man who traveled to Minnesota to get a fresh start in life. On the day he was murdered he had used a counterfeit twenty dollar bill to make a purchase. We don’t know if he was even aware that it was bogus but that is neither here nor there. The manner in which he was ultimately mistreated is all that really matters and as I watched the painful last moments of his life it felt as though all of those years when I chose to set the pain and injustice of 1968 aside had been a selfish unwillingness on my part to face bitter truths. We have problems that have yet to be addressed and no slogans or hats or pretense that they are not still with us will make them go away anymore than pretending that Covid-19 is a hoax will allow us to resume business as usual without fear of more sickness and dying.

I have forced myself to watch the unfolding tragedy of pent up anger night after night. It is a painful thing to see. I do not like it. I want it to stop, but I know deep down inside that it will not go away permanently until we face it squarely and fairly just as we must face the virus. The tragedy of what is happening in our country today is not that we don’t have normal graduations or that our European vacations have been cancelled but that people are suffering and yet we are anxious to get everything back to normal even as we sense that nothing is normal. We are fooling ourselves if we just ignore the cries for our attention, for our help.

Using dogs and force to control human beings was a common method for those who enslaved the ancestors of many of the young people who are shocking us with their behavior in the streets of America’s cities. Vigilante lynching was used to keep the newly freed slaves in line after the Civil War. Even when Martin Luther King led peaceful protests the great grandparents and grandparents of today’s young people met with billy clubs and rubber hoses wrapped with barbed wire. When American athletes quietly kneeled during the National Anthem to demonstrate that Black Lives Matter they were loudly criticized and their efforts were mocked and ignored. I wonder how far any group of people can be pushed before their anger boils over in the kind of lawlessness that we are seeing? I wonder how we and our children and grandchildren would be acting if the tables were turned?

There are forty two million black Americans living in our country today. Only a handful of them have taken to the streets and even among those who are protesting an even smaller number are committing illegal acts. Nonetheless the vast majority of all African Americans are viscerally hurt and filled with grief and anger that even after all this time discrimination based on the color of their skin still exists. They are the group most affected by Covid-19 in this country. They are the most affected by the massive unemployment that has resulted from the pandemic. Nearly every problem our country has affected them more than any of us.

Our African American coworkers and neighbors and friends need us to finally hear their pleas and understand that while slavery was long ago the indignities associated with it have yet to be fully resolved. We cannot fool ourselves into thinking that just because we do not personally discriminate that there is no need to continue the efforts to eradicate the underbelly of racism. We can no longer rely on an Abraham Lincoln or a Martin Luther King to do the heavy lifting for us. We must lead ourselves out of this wilderness and into the promised land by setting things right once and for all. For surely if we only clean up the damage and go back to our normal lives the ugly stain of slavery will continue to haunt us all. 

In Memoriam

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

arlington

Memorial Day is always a pensive time for me on so many levels. This year I felt the spirit of all of the souls who lost their lives in the service of our country more than ever. I also thought of those who made it through wars but whose lives were forever changed by memories of battles that they fought. War is a terrible thing and we have generally tried very hard to use it as a last resort. Nonetheless even now we have soldiers serving in war torn countries knowing that they may lose their lives at any moment. Such courage is difficult to understand but many who served in the military have told me that in the heat of a battle the focus becomes the preservation of the members of the corps. It is all about attempting to insure that everyone survives and leaves the battlefield alive. That profound human instinct to protect takes over to create magnificent acts of heroism.

I am a pacifist by nature but I understand that there are indeed times that require humans to defend themselves, their families, their country. If I had my way diplomacy would be rational and powerful enough to end war forever but I know that somehow people have a very difficult time setting aside their differences in a spirit of compromise. Throughout history we have found ourselves engaged in combat again and again and our young men have been called upon to fight. On Memorial Day we remember those whose lives were cut short and while we honor them, we also silently wonder why they had to much such a profound sacrifice for the rest of us.

I spent time this past weekend watching some movies about the brave men who have fought for our cause. First I viewed Glory, one of my all time favorite films. I cannot watch it without ultimately sobbing. It encapsulates the mixed emotions that surround the history of our country including perhaps the worst political mistake we ever made in allowing slavery to coexist with the ideals of democracy. While the nation was growing and prospering the politics of slavery that divided the people became more and more inflamed ultimately pitting state against state, region against region, brother against brother.

My great grandfather who was living in Kentucky chose to fight for the union forces. He spent four years first as a foot soldier and then a calvary man. The war placed a toll on his health. Somehow he was never as robust as he had once been and surely the horrors that he witnessed must have haunted him. His unit was tasked with collecting the bodies of the dead and wounded soldiers after the battle of Shiloh. It had to have been a gruesome sight that haunted him even as he settled into a somewhat normal existence had began a family. I think of them often and feel both pride for his service and regret that he had to endure such a thing. 

I also watched We Were Soldiers another film that brings out emotions from my youth. It takes place during the Vietnam War in the year when I was a senior in high school. Seeing the brutality of the battle it depicts only reinforces the sorrow that I felt whenever I learned of the death of someone who had been a classmate or a friend. While many of them had enlisted, others were drafted into service. The country was conflicted about the necessity of our involvement in what was essentially a civil war in a place so far away from home. While it was touted as a stand against communism it became clear over time that somehow we were outsiders attempting to protect Vietnam from a war that the Viet Cong was determined to win no matter how long it took.

The wall in Washington D.C. lists the names of all of the almost sixty thousand souls that we lost in that effort. I am haunted by the humanity of it each time I visit and run my fingers over the names of those that I knew. They were brave individuals who believed that theirs was a just cause but to this very day I wonder if losing them might have been prevented if we had known beforehand how the conflict would ultimately end. How different would their lives and the lives of those who loved them be if they had never gone to Vietnam? 

History, and particularly military history, is riddled with questions. It is easier to see the might have beens in retrospect. An armchair general can consider what went wrong with great clarity but the reality is that we will never really know what would have happened if we had chosen different routes. Wars are caused when humans cannot agree on how the world should be. Our young people go out to fight the battles for the philosophies of politicians and sometimes tragically lose their lives. I consider how wonderful it would be if we never had to engage our youth in such horrors ever again while realistically understanding that such an ideal will never come to pass.

This Memorial Day was haunted by the growing divide amongst us regarding Covid-19, a virus that has taken close to one hundred thousand souls in a span of  only three months. While the disease stalks the world in search of bodies to invade we argue with one another and point fingers at those who are attempting to lead us. We choose sides and sometimes even viciously attack those whose beliefs differ from our own while our courageous essential workers have been drafted into the role of keeping us safe. It is a new kind of battle with so much uncertainty that none of us can truly know exactly how to react.

I cannot understand why we humans choose to argue with one another so often and why we so seldom choose to find a road that eschews hostility. Perhaps it is in our natures, something that we have never been able to totally control. We have gone to war with one another in an endless loop of death and destruction that rears its head more often than we wish and yet we still work at odds with one another and follow those who actually encourage us to do so. We repeat the mistakes and the sins of our ancestors because in the end we are not so different from them. Memorial Day should always remind us of the cost of disagreements that become so entrenched that we no longer communicate. The spirits of all of the lost humanity should spur us to find ways of loving instead of fighting.