Category: Women

East Meets West

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

east-westYears ago one of my grandson’s was building a family tree at school. He reported to his class that he was half Chinese. Since he had blonde hair and blue eyes his teacher was somewhat confused about his claim. She hesitated to accuse him of making up a tale, but found it difficult to believe that he had even a smidgen of Asian heritage in his DNA. She emailed my daughter to determine why he might think such a thing. That only seemed to confound the puzzlement, so my daughter went to the source and asked her little boy why he felt that he was half Chinese. He innocently asserted that he had come to that conclusion because half of the people at our family parties were Chinese, and he knew them as relatives, so he had come to the conclusion that he must indeed be of Asian decent as well. The mystery was solved.

One of my brothers married a lovely woman from Taiwan many years ago. He was working for a NASA contractor and so was she when he met her at a meeting. He was immediately taken by her beauty, intellect and personality and in a fashion that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he set out to find her and ask her for a date. He learned that her last name was Liu, and he began calling all of the people in the phone book who shared that same name. Eventually he got lucky and actually reached her when she was visiting a friend who was also named Liu. He was smitten from the beginning and it wasn’t long before they were both in love.

Becky has brought so much wonder to our family. Aside from introducing us to the the history and exquisiteness of her culture, she has shared her family members who melded with us as though we had all been born to be together. It is little wonder that my grandson believed that he was related to her parents and siblings by blood. They have faithfully stood by our sides through celebrations and tragedies. All the while they have taught us extraordinary lessons about generosity and determination.

Becky was born in mainland China before it was taken over by Mao and the communists. Her father had been a professor of physics and an officer in the army. He was from a family of intellectuals that included a newspaper editor who had spoken out against the revolutionaries. When the political takeover of the country came, Becky’s parents knew that they must flee with their children. Her older sisters recall being dressed in many layers of clothing into which their mother had sewn money and valuables to use as barter for their safe passage our of the country. At the time they did not fully understand what was happening, but they sensed that it was something dangerous and frightening as they made the long journey of escape.

Becky grew up in Taiwan with two sisters and two brothers. All of them were studious and worked hard to earn the opportunity to travel to American universities to earn degrees in sciences, engineering, and computers. Eventually they became citizens and brought their parents to live with them. They emphasized hard work and academics with their children who grew up as peers of my own girls. In reality all of the kids thought of themselves as cousins and were as close as they might have been if their bloodlines had been from the same tree.

We found ways to get together as a family on birthdays, for Thanksgiving and at Christmas and Easter. We celebrated births and milestones, like graduations and marriages. They introduced us to the Chinese opera and dim sum. We sat around a hot pot and laughed and told stories while sharing feasts. We marveled at the many successes of the youngsters who grew up to become doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, business men and women. My grandchildren played with theirs and the extended family grew and grew.

My mother thought of Becky’s mother as her very best friend. The two of them often sat together smiling and holding hands. They accompanied my brother and Becky on trips all over the United States and never exchanged a cross word. Becky honored my mom as is customary in Asian culture, opening her heart and her home to Mama without reservation and with the deepest regard and respect. I often felt humbled by the love that Becky and her siblings gave so unconditionally to our clan, even when my mother’s bipolar disorder made her less than congenial.

We have all been blessed and enriched by our association with Becky. She has given us a great gift that has made us better than we might have been. She has quietly taught us how to embrace differences and the importance of allowing our adventurous spirits to soar freely. I suspect that if we were to be honest we would have to agree with my grandson that through our many interactions we have all become part Chinese. Our eyes have been opened to the wondrous history and contributions of the east where there was a highly advanced culture long before our western civilization began to form. We have learned just how much more beautiful life is when we see the world through the viewpoints of the people of many different nations and races. Becky was the catalyst for our transformation from the ordinary.

To this very day Becky is extraordinary. She looks like a gorgeous movie or rock star in her Facebook profile photo. She spent decades doing incredible things at NASA, contributing to the betterment of science and space exploration. She excels at virtually everything that she attempts. Most recently she has taken up painting and quilting with the most incredible results. I have to say that I have been somewhat in awe of her for most of my adult life, but now the two of us are able to just sit together quietly like her mother and my mother once did. We are bound by our roles as wives, mothers, grandmothers and sisters. Family has become our most important pursuit and we find ourselves quite happy that we are in the same one. I hope that just maybe Becky has enjoyed learning about us as much we have been about getting to know her. It has been remarkable experiencing our moments of east meeting west.

Shoes

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Isa-Tapia-featuredConfederate troops were looking for a shoe factory when they became engaged in a bloody battle at Gettysburg. It seems that they were in dire need of footwear for their soldiers. The fact that they were searching for something so basic often gets lost in the historical record that focuses instead on the brilliant oratory of President Abraham Lincoln in the address that he delivered in the aftermath of that terrible loss of lives. Those of us living in the United States in the modern era often take the shoes that line our closets for granted, but it hasn’t always been so.

My grandfather loved to tell of the time that he finally received a beautiful pair of high top lace up boots to wear to school. It was the finest pair of shoes that he had ever worn and the leather felt like butter next to his feet. It never occurred to him that he was a still boy who was likely to become taller, or that he might outgrow his beloved shoes, but the day came when he did indeed. His toes pressed so painfully against the end of the boots that he could barely walk. When he told his grandmother that he needed a new pair she explained that she would not have the funds for such a purchase for many months. Since the weather was already warm and they lived in the country, she thought it would be best if grandpa just roamed freely in his bare feet rather than distorting his toes in the cramped enclosure of the shoes.

Grandpa said that he was so proud of those shoes that he couldn’t bear the idea of walking through burrs and stepping on rocks without their protective sole. Still he worried that his feet would become deformed if he continued to torture himself by curling his toes just enough to keep them from pushing hard on the edges of the ill fitting boots. He devised a plan that he thought was brilliant. He went to the barn and found an axe which he used to carefully chop off the leather on the toes without harming the sole beneath. When he tried on his new creation he was happy to note that his feet now fit perfectly in the makeshift open toe style. His grandmother praised his inventiveness and laughed at the sight that he must have been. The strange looking shoes kept him going for many more months. 

My mother always spoke of how shoes were passed down from one child to another in her family of eight children. Since she was the youngest her footwear was often on its last leg. The leather on the sole of the shoes sometimes had a tendency to sprout holes which meant that she was often walking directly on wet pavement when it rained. Her inventive mother would save cardboard for instant repairs. She traced around the bottom of the shoe and then fit the protective paper inside to keep the elements off of Mama’s feet. Not too surprisingly my mother developed a thing for insisting that my brothers and I always had the best shoes for daily wear that her money could buy. She would scrimp on almost everything, but never on shoes.

I usually had two pairs of shoes at any given time. One was the set that I wore to school each day and the other was for church. Mama bought high quality brands like Life Stride and Buster Brown. A family from our church had a mom and pop shoe store where Mama always took us. Mr. and Mrs. Lippie took great care in fitting our shoes and literally refused to sell us a pair that didn’t hug our feet as though it had been made by magical cobblers for our unique specifications. Sometimes a visit to their store took well over an hour but Mama felt secure in the knowledge that our shoes would do no harm to our feet. My shoes were ever so practical which didn’t much matter when I was wearing a school uniform but as I grew into my teenage years I found myself drawn to the flashy numbers enticing me from the show windows of shoe emporiums at the mall. My mother often reminded me to be wary of their pointed toes and high heels, insisting that they would do irreparable damage to my pampered feet. Of course her warnings went in one ear and out the other.

As soon as I had the independence that comes from having a decent job and living away from one’s childhood home I became addicted to shoes. Given the choice between a lovely pair of pumps and a new frock I would invariably prefer to purchase yet another fashion for my feet. Because my mother had made certain that my feet were so well cared for I was able to stuff them into virtually any style known to man. As long as the price was right, I did, even as my mother complained and predicted that I was dooming my precious feet to a painful future.

My collection of shoes grew and grew in my adult years until I had enough to rival Imelda Marcos. I rarely met a shoe that I didn’t like and in spite of my mom’s predictions, I had no difficulty wearing the highest heels or the most confining styles. Shoes were like a drug to me. Nothing made me smile more than finding a new pair that was unlike any I had owned before. Sadly my joyful hobby of acquiring shoes for any occasion eventually came to a very sad end.

Just as my mother had prophesied I found myself developing more and more problems with my feet. I had to give all of my stiletto heels away because I could only wear them for a few minutes before my feet and my knees were screaming in pain. Those with the lovely pointed toes were the next to go when my feet rebelled against being so grotesquely constricted. More and more often I found myself purchasing “Granny Gump” styles from Clarks. I preferred the idea of actually being able to walk over the practice of enveloping my feet in portable torture chambers.

I have always loved the summer because I am able to achieve a bit more stylishness with sandals even as I age. People have commented that I have pretty feet and I try to keep them looking good for the warmer months when I can allow them to be free in flip flops and cute gladiator styles that show off my slim ankles. Now even that little slice of vanity is no longer available to me. Just a few weeks ago someone dropped a heavy can on my foot while I stood in line at the grocery store. My big toe throbbed in pain for days and turned completely black. Eventually the entire nail came off leaving me in a very unattractive state. Google tells me that it will take from six months to one year for things to return to normal. For now I will be wearing closed toes in public, which is particularly irksome because I am traveling to Cancun in June. I laugh because it somehow seems to be karma, a mild scolding for my prideful behavior and lack of true appreciation for the gift of good feet that my mother sacrificed to give me.

I keep thinking of the old saying, “I complained because I had no shoes, and then I saw a man who had no feet.” Maybe it’s time for me to lay my shoe fetish to rest and return to the days of practicality. My damaged toe is a sign that I need to get my priorities straight. I’ve been so vain and now it’s time to focus on something that is actually important. The fact that I can still walk freely around my neighborhood is a gift that I won’t take for granted. My own good health and fortune are all the blessings I need, but I must admit that I did drool over those gorgeous sandals that would be oh so cute for Easter. I guess it will take some time before I completely change my shoe loving stripes.    

Dark Side of the Moon

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

DSOTM farside NASALast week I went to the Burke Baker Planetarium at the Houston Museum of Natural Science with my daughter’s family and watched a light show accompanied by music from Pink Floyd. The computer graphic extravaganza shown on the domed roof of the planetarium features the sounds of the rock album Dark Side of the Moon flush with the inventive sounds that made the band so popular. The experience was a feast for the senses that carried my mind and imagination to many places.

Long ago I had spent a similar night out with my daughters and my dear friend Pat and her kids. Because she had an adventurous spirit I never knew what to expect on our excursions and true to form she surprised us one evening with the announcement that we would be attending a laser show at the Burke Baker Planetarium called Dark Side of the Moon. We arrived to find an odd gathering of young couples enjoying date night, sixties hippie throw backs with graying long hair, and groups of college students raucously joking and jabbing at one another. Our menagerie filled the theater and expectantly chattered in the semi-darkness waiting for the program to begin. With the first sound of heartbeats that mark the beginning and end of Pink Floyd’s musical adventure, our “girls‘ night out” became a time to remember, one of the many well orchestrated events planned by Pat.

I find myself missing the excursions with my dear friend and our patient daughters who stoically put up with our embarrassing antics even while they secretly enjoyed them. We ferreted out the Houston nightspots suitable for family and often found ourselves sipping on milkshakes at the 59 Diner at midnight or perusing the musical selections at one of the late night record stores where the only other customers were all decked out in their anti-establishment regalia. Pat of course never met a stranger and loved engaging in conversations with an array of interesting characters who introduced her to the quirky hidden treasures of our city like the Orange Show which we ultimately had to find and experience for ourselves. Pat opened windows on the world that I might never have even noticed had we not enjoyed those grand junkets together.

So it was that I thought of her when I once again sat in a remodeled Burke Baker Planetarium watching an updated version of Dark Side of the Moon. The computer graphics were more intricate than the old rendition and the sound literally reverberated on my skin. The sights and sounds once again drew me in. My mind traveled from the past to the present and into the future. In certain moments I felt as though it was 1972 once again and I was a young twenty something woman living through the excitement of an historical time so chaotic that our human destinies seemed certain to end badly. I was idealistic and rebellious back then, intent on bringing change and universal peace to the world. I identified with the challenging thoughts set forth in the lyrics by Pink Floyd and reveled in the inventiveness of their music. I naively believed that we humans had evolved to a point where we might actually find a way to live together in harmony forevermore.

Of course as I lived through that faraway decade to this moment I watched as humankind made a bit of progress here and there only to revert back to some of our baser habits in so many less than admirable moments. The years taught me that people follow patterns that even our long ago ancestors might have understood. We layer ourselves in the trappings of progress but have bad habits of creating false dichotomies of us versus them. We waste our time on pursuits that bring us only temporary happiness and run after money as though it is the ultimate goal of life. We measure our own worth against what we see as success in others. The brain damage that we inflict upon ourselves when we neglect to just breathe and indulge our senses in the colors of sight and sound that are all around us can leave us gasping for air. When all is said and done, as we find ourselves approaching the last decades of our lives we begin to finally see the world as it actually is rather than how we want it to be.

As I sat in the dark theater with my family sitting nearby I felt a sense of calmness as I pondered the questions posed by Pink Floyd and contemplated the brilliance of our species. My days have now slowed down. I no longer feel a sense of urgency in the things that I do. My goals are geared toward demonstrating the profound love that I feel for the people who populate my little corner of life. I have the luxury of pausing to enjoy the show produced by nature that is even more complex and exciting than anything that has ever been done by man. I appreciate both our glory and our flaws. I hear the heartbeat of mankind’s struggle to become loftier and more noble as well as our breathless sighs that demonstrate how much farther we have to go.

I understand now more than ever how important it is to catch those rainbow moments that my friend Pat invited me to enjoy with her. I realize that even a simple diversion like a light show with music from Dark Side of the Moon might be a life altering experience, a defining memory of friendship and a meeting of minds. It is up to each of us to open our hearts to the possibilities that are all around us and to now and again tarry just long enough to reflect on our progress as people.

The dark side of the moon is not a place without light, but the area of the lunar surface that is unknown to us because it faces away from the earth. There is no doubt  that we have yet to discover much about life and the universe, just as there are potentials within our own minds that have not been plumbed. The frontier inside our souls is worthy of our exploration. Perhaps Pat always understood that in the end it is not up to us to rearrange the trajectory of the world but rather to embrace the power and glory that we already possess and then share what we find out with others. That is when our windows on the universe fly open and we finally see the brilliant light that has always been there. 

Purpose

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

puzzleI recently heard a woman from the Hoover Institute at Stanford University speak about the elusiveness of happiness in today’s world. It seems that we humans are seeking peace and joy for ourselves more than ever and somehow our searches are leaving us empty handed. In a time when we should be feeling more comfortable and joyful than ever, we are ironically filled with anxiety and guilt. Instead of groping aimlessly for answers, we should realize that true contentment is generally found in leading a purposeful life, but what is that actually, and how do we find it?

Purpose has as its object the finding of meaning or a grand design in life. It is going to be different for each of us. Unfortunately we are surrounded by many so called experts who seem intent on undermining our individual efforts to define what is most important, complicating our attempts to find ourselves in a world that can be quite cruel if it thinks that we have chosen unwisely. We are encouraged to use our talents well and often doing so involves being all things to many different people. We have many unique responsibilities, possibilities and characteristics that make us tick. The process of determining how to live can be quite overwhelming unless we are strong enough to follow our own hearts rather than the dictates of others.

I myself have been utterly confused from time to time as I mapped out a pathway for my personal existence. I wanted to be a writer but was told again and again by well meaning adults that thinking of myself as a word smith was a frivolous and self centered activity that would never amount to much. I decided to become a teacher but was often reminded that I might have been a doctor or a lawyer and made more of an impact on the world. I also felt a compelling sense of responsibility to my family which I believed should always come first. It was difficult and confusing to balance all of my personal desires with the needs and ideas of everyone else. It was only when I found out what gave me a real sense of purpose that I found the contentment that I sought.

I prefer the immaterial rewards of teaching to those that are monetary. I am altruistic by nature and need to feel a strong sense of meaning in my work. I have felt the most comfortable with myself in knowing that I have attempted to do my best to care for my loved ones and friends. I have learned how to carve out time to fulfill my desire to write alongside my life’s work. In other words I have found purpose along many different avenues and that has brought me much joy. Being myself has been a process of trial and error, satisfaction and disappointment. I have learned much about myself along the way and that self knowledge has helped me to know what I must do.

Because something works for one person does not necessarily mean that it will work for another. One need not seek careers in service to others to find happiness, nor is joy  necessarily found in the more creative ventures. Sometimes the mundane is a font of delight for some folks.

My grandmother was the epitome of contentment and yet her life was built around an unchanging routine of cooking, sewing and gardening. She found true elation in rolling biscuits with the precision of a master chef. She marveled at the gifts of nature when she strode through the rows of vegetables that she had planted, wearing her sunbonnet and overalls like Paris fashions. She created quilts and crocheted tablecloths worthy of kings with little more than feed sacks and her imagination as her tools of the trade. She always wore a smile of satisfaction on her face.

My sister-in-law spent a lifetime working as an engineer in a world that was dominated by men when she first dared to enter it. By the time she retired she had done wondrous things and pioneered the role of women in a field that had once been hostile to her. She reveled in the challenges, determined to prove that women can be leaders in unconventional careers while still successfully raising a family. She fulfilled all of her desires in a very different way from me and my grandmother.

I have found that the key for anyone is to do what makes him/her excited about getting started each day. When that sense of expectation is missing, so will the joy be absent. Far too many people feel like drones in a beehive, working for the man rather than for themselves. They fear admitting their discontent and making the changes that they need to find relevance in the way they spend their days. It takes great courage to face down the devil of misery but the rewards for doing so are immeasurable, even when the whole world may see the move as being irresponsible or ridiculous.

I was only eight when my father died, but old enough to notice that he didn’t appear to like his work. He was a mechanical engineer who often switched jobs and who spoke longingly of other fields that he might have entered. He was the bread winner for our family and he had spent years getting his degree. I suppose that he felt honor bound to continue in his work even though it was seemingly joyless for him. He was a man of so many talents and perhaps he simply needed to try something a bit different but he never got or created the opportunity to do so.

I know a man who was also an engineer who left that career path to become a teacher. He is an extraordinarily talented educator who found his true vocation in a classroom. He has won awards for his ability to motivate youngsters and best of all he has discovered his niche, his purpose. He walks through life with a huge grin on his face. There were those who thought that he had lost his mind when he first announced his intention to change professions but his transformation from misery to elation has convinced even his biggest detractors of the reasoning behind his move.

Each of us has a special role to fulfill in this world. If we manage to find a perfect match for our talents and our interests our lives will be transformed. We all need to encourage those who are seeking satisfying destinies, not by insisting that they follow traditional routes but by supporting them as they try the things that make them feel most alive. Happiness is indeed found in purpose, in finding the justification for our existence. We must explore as we seek answers for not just how to live, but why. When we unravel that glorious personal puzzle we experience a sense of happiness that is indescribable. Everyone should enjoy such a discovery. 

Finding Marion

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

shamrocksThere is a theory that most people will be completely forgotten within three generations. After that time nobody still living will have heard the sound of their voices or felt the impact of their personalities. They may leave behind photographs or documents attesting to their presence on this earth but essentially they are defined not by memories but by images. Of course the modern era is rectifying this with digital footprints that might include recordings and moving pictures. Such used to be the purview of only the wealthy but now even common folk have access to technology. This is not the case for most of those who came before us and so they are slowly but surely being forgotten.

I have a great grandmother who is a mystery. I think that her name was Marion Rourke but of that I am not certain. She was the mother of my grandfather, William Mack Little. He told us that she died three days after he was born. There is no record of any of this. In spite of my relentless searches, Marion remains a cipher, as though she never even existed.

Of course there has to have been such a person because William was not just found in a cabbage patch. He had a father named James Mack who took him to live with a woman that he called his grandmother known as Sarah Reynolds. Sadly I have been unable to find any records for these individuals. They walked on this earth as though they were ghosts, phantoms of my grandfather’s imagination.

William never knew Marion but he thought enough of her to name his first born daughter after her. It was his touching way of honoring her. I suspect that he always wondered who Marion was and what she was like, just as I do. It saddens me to think that she died at what should have been one of the happiest moments of her life. She had a good strong son who would ironically live to be one hundred eight years old. He was a very kind and intelligent man who treated women with the highest regard. He no doubt would have been a dutiful son to the woman who brought him into the world.

Marion’s last name indicates a connection of some kind with Ireland. My grandfather always claimed to be half Scottish and half Irish and I have verified such roots with a DNA test that I once took. I wonder if she was born in the Emerald Isle or if she was a descendent of someone who originally came from there. She had a beautiful name and was someone’s daughter, but who might that have been? She was obviously quite poor according to what little my grandfather knew of her. He was her first child and I wonder what happened that made her so ill that she died.

When I had my first daughter my labor was long and hard. There were complications and my doctor later told me that in the old days I might have lost the baby or even died myself. I wonder if I somehow inherited the same genetic disposition for difficult birthing that Marion had. Do I have an idea of what she might have endured? Was she alone and frightened as things went awry? Did she realize that she would not live long enough to see her son grow into a man? Such thoughts haunt me as I attempt to remember her without any facts to steer me in the right direction.

I try not to forget Marion. Someone has to think of her. Each St. Patrick’s Day I celebrate the Irish in me and attempt to imagine my great grandmother. I cook corned beef and cabbage and celebrate my own life that would not exist were it not for the sacrifice of her own. I so want to know her and probably never really will.

My grandfather is not quite sure where he was born nor where he spent his childhood. It was somewhere in Virginia where he was able to see hills in the distance. By the age of thirteen he was orphaned again when his grandmother died and he became a ward of the state. He chose John Little as his guardian because he was an honorable man, a graduate of West Point. Grandpa took “Little” as his last name in honor of the individual who helped him to complete his journey into adulthood. Sadly John Little died of typhus when he was in his early thirties leaving my grandfather all alone again. Grandpa had to fight hard to find reasons to to stay alive, and somehow he always did. He had an optimism that was inspiring. I wonder if he inherited that trait from Marion? Would she have been proud to see him overcoming one challenge after another?

I feel a kinship with Marion both as a woman and as her great granddaughter. I know that she lives somewhere in me. I would love to know where she was born, what she did as a child, how she met James and where she was finally buried. It has been a kind of holy grail for me to find out who she really was and I am not yet ready to give up even though I have spent years searching for someone who seems not to have even existed. She deserves to be known and loved and treasured.

On St. Patrick’s Day I will once again prepare my traditional meal and think of her. It is possible that I will be the last person to do so. She will one day become forgotten just as the countless individuals who came before her. I am determined to tell her story even if I have to fill in the blanks to describe the details. I know from the scant information regarding her untimely death that she had been loved enough by James to bring forth a child and that hers was a difficult existence devoid of the medical help that might have insured her survival.  I know that her son was a strong, bright and healthy man who would have been a joy to her. I know enough about genetics to realize that she must have been an intelligent woman. Her DNA has helped to produce some quite outstanding descendants.

Marion is a name said to have derived from the Hebrew “Miryam” which means “sea of sorrow.” I hope that this is not an accurate description of hurt and pain that my great grandmother may have endured. I would like to believe that she found peace and that somehow she knows how well things turned out for her son and his son and finally for me.