All It Takes Is A Little Love

There are people who fear telling children difficult truths about history. I suppose that such intentions are well meaning and I can’t speak for everyone, but my own experience has been appreciating honesty from my elders. I suppose that is because my father and my grandfather were always quite open with me. They had a way of informing me of our nation’s troubles without making me feel personally responsible. I always appreciated that they did not hide the flaws from me, but discussed them in ways that even a child might understand. Their honesty actually made me feel more empathetic and determined to understand people who have suffered.

My grandfather in particular often spoke of the profound poverty of many American families during what he called the Cleveland Panic at the end of the nineteenth century. He related how an army of unemployed and impoverished people came through his town on their way to Washington to protest their situations. This group became known as “Coxey’s Army.” Grandpa spoke of their plight and reinforced the gravity of the situation by speaking of people that he knew who were starving. He often noted that this era of economic turmoil was even worse that what came to be known as the Great Depression in the twentieth century. 

My grandfather also recounted tales of his time in Oklahoma before and after it had become a state. A frequent theme of his stories involved the mistreatment of the members of the Osage Indian tribe that he witnessed. It was fascinating and disheartening to hear how white people had stolen from the Native Americans and treated them as though they were inferior and lacking in intelligence. Grandpa said that he saw white men trading car batteries for land among other egregious things. He related his disgust over and over again as though he wanted to be certain that I would be privy to truths about the mistreatment of the original inhabitants of this nation. 

When I heard that Martin Scorsese had directed a movie that featured a story about murder and theft against members of the Osage Indian tribe in Oklahoma I knew that I had to see the film. Killers of the Flower Moon is based on a book of the same name. Members of the Osage tribe were placed on a reservation in Oklahoma on land that was considered to be the worst part of the state. Then oil was discovered making the Osage people who lived there the wealthiest people in the nation per capita because the treaty agreement had promised them the mineral rights. Unfortunately the Osage people were under the jurisdiction of white guardians who doled out their income and often took cuts for themselves as fees for their services. Eventually there were a series of unexplained deaths among the newly wealthy Osage people. 

I won’t go into details about the story because I think that the film is a masterpiece that is a must see for everyone. Martin Scorsese has created a movie that will be viewed for the ages. His reverence for the Osage people is apparent in every minute of the over three hour story. The actors, Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert DiNero, and Lily Gladstone give Oscar worthy performances. The script is intense and heartbreaking. Every American should see this film so that they might realize the extent to which we all too often mistreated and misunderstood those whose ancestors roamed this land long before the first settlers came from Europe. It is an important and eye opening story even for someone like me who had already heard of such mistreatment of the Osage people from my Grandfather. 

What is most beautiful about the movie is that the Osage nation is treated with great respect by Martin Scorsese. He used only Native Americans for the roles of Osage people. He did not ask them to speak any differently that they actually do. He portrayed them as the beautiful, compassionate and intelligent people that they were and continue to be. 

The conclusion of the film included a ceremony of the Osage tribe that brought me to tears. As a child of five years old I lived in Oklahoma for a brief time while my father worked there. One evening he took us to see a similar ceremony telling us what a privilege it was to see such a thing. I have never forgotten the beauty of the ritual. It was absolutely stunning. Seeing it again on the big screen brought back the child in me who had been so enchanted by the sheer majesty of the ceremony. I found myself sobbing for the cruelty that these beautiful people have endured as I viewed their beauty in the theater. I understood why my father and grandfather had tried to educate me even when I was quite young. 

Learning difficult truths is indeed very sad, but I believe that it is necessary. The history of the world is littered with tragedies inflicted by one group of people on others. Knowing about such things helps us to recognize wrongs when we see them. Admitting that we humans or Americans do not always get things right makes us better people. We can evolve into more just behavior only if we are honest. Children are not harmed by truth. 

When I was still a little girl I enjoyed hearing exotic stories from one of my cousins who was old enough to be my father. He was a geologist who often spent months working in northern Africa, particularly in Libya. He would speak of the unique beauty of the country and its people. One time while working in a desert area he became disoriented and lost his way. If not for the kindness of strangers who found him and guided him back to civilization, he might have died. As a child I was in awe of his adventures and often wondered about the remarkable country that he so excitedly described. 

It would be much later that I would find myself reading about far different images of Libya than the ones recounted by my cousin. After years of political upheaval the political situation there had changed dramatically by 2011 leading first to protests and then years of civil war between multiple factions. A tenuous peace was finally procured in 2020, but there are still isolated terrorist attacks and protests that have made the country unsafe, poor and badly run. Infrastructures have been weakened after years of neglect and tensions have continued to fester under the tensions of daily living. 

On September 12, a storm in Mediterranean brought torrential rains to northern Africa and Libya in particular. After years of neglect two damns riddled with cracks and crumbling walls broke as water from the storm pushed against first one and then the other. The result was an epic human disaster when the waters rushed without warning into the city of Derna in eastern Libya. Tens of thousands died including whole families whose homes were washed away. Rescue efforts required cooperation among rival factions and countries. For the first time in decades it seemed more important to Libyan citizens to suspend enmity in the hopes of saving lives. 

I listened to a distraught resident of Libya describing the scene while fighting back tears. His emotion was palatable as he spoke of the realization among the people of Libya that climate change had wrought this epic tragedy, but ultimately so had all of the fighting among rivals. He urged his fellow citizens to suspend their divisions and finally come together in peace and unity for a common cause that affects them all. 

As I listened to this man I could not help thinking about the past few years during which America has been torn into warring camps that have led us to a very dangerous moment in our own history. Instead of working to solve our common problems and to keep our nation in good working order our national, state and local governments are beset by bickering and retribution, wars over our differing cultural beliefs . We may not have political problems that are as severe as those in Libya, but we have not been been living in harmony with each other for quite some time now. All of us should be concerned by this and by political candidates who stoke the fires of fear that create fissures in our political system. 

Libya’s story shows us that things will only get worse if we continue down this road. Some of the most honorable men and women in our government are being pushed out of office and telling us that the situation is far worse than we might even have imagined. We look at the functioning of our institutions and surely must see that they are broken, but instead of making repairs, mending fences, we seem to only be quibbling with one another. We may not realize it but we are presently engaged in an unofficial war that will most certainly continue to escalate unless and until we broker a truce that brings nonpartisan ideas to the table. 

We all know what we should be doing, but we continue in a circular motion that ignores truth and common sense. Tribalism and nationalism has never worked. It’s based on the idea of pitting one group against another. It forces individuals to join groups. I focuses on meaningless problems rather than what is really needed by the society. It breeds extremism that leads to seemingly good people becoming focused more on prohibiting and banning than providing solutions and freedoms. 

 We would do well to see Libya as a proverbial example of what might happen here if we do not quell the fires of disagreement that are being fanned by people who have found a way to assert their own power. Dictators do not actually care about the people. They pretend that they do, but essentially all that they have in mind is feathering their own nests. They have to use force to keep people in line and to protect themselves. It has happened before even in seemingly civilized societies. It most certainly could happen here. It’s up to each of us to be certain that we do not encourage people who openly taunt us to hate each other. Democracy dies in such dark places. We have to use our votes wisely while they still count.

It’s funny how I have changed my thinking over time. I am not sure that the process of adulting actually made me wiser, but it certainly caused me to see the world a bit differently than when I was young and eager to step independently into the real world beyond the reach of my elders. In spite of my bravado I was filled with so much uncertainty about the future and how I felt about myself. I tried to hide my self consciousness with smiles and jokes about my appearance and awkwardness. I pretended to be confident when in reality I had no idea what I was doing. I dove into the world headfirst and hoped that I would not hit my head on a hard surface or drown.

I was filled with the romance of fairytales and love stories while also worrying incessantly that I would never find my Prince Charming. I watched movies like The Heiress on my family’s black and white television screen and worried that I might become a spinster without the added safety net of falling back on the wealth of my family. I wondered if my future would become a melodrama or if by some miracle love would come into my life like it did for Katherine Hepburn in The Rainmaker. I fell in love with Burt Lancaster because his character in that movie appeared to be the miracle worker that Hepburn’s Lizzie needed to escape the dreariness of being an aging spinster. Somehow watching that film filled me with hope that I too would one day be loved. 

The Rainmaker was a romance novel come alive for my young girl mind. Lizzie was a plain woman leading a dreary life caring for her father and brothers on a farm in Kansas. She saw life slipping away from her as she seemed not even able to attract the attention of the unassuming Sheriff File. She watched the men in her household fulfilling their dreams while hers appeared to be slowly dying until Starbuck, a flim flam man who promised to make rain for the drought stricken town, came along. He romanced Lizzie with tales of fantasy that made her feel beautiful. Her soul came to life and suddenly both Starbuck and File proposed to her. When she chose the quiet and steady File I was quite disappointed when I watched that film as a teenage girl. Later as a middle age women I felt that there was no contest that old reliable File was indeed the better choice. 

We need the daring fire in the belly feelings of our youth or we might never be able to fly away from the nests of our families. The young are filled with dreams and possibilities just as I was. We see ourselves changing the world, creating our own stories of courage. We take chances because we are walking into the unknown. We learn from each experience and fine tune our desires to become more practical and temperate. We begin to value people who are steady and dependable. We learn who and what to avoid to keep ourselves safe. We become more and more like the adults that we were once anxious to leave. We rewatch old movies or read books again with new perspectives that bring us to different conclusions than we might have had at an earlier time. 

Still, there is something so incredibly important about treasuring the willingness of the young to experiment and try new ideas, places, ways of living. The world would be a rather dull and predicable place if we all settled into adult routines without ever questioning the value of them. Inventiveness brings progress while caution questions the value of things that are shiny and new. The ends of the spectrum working together have the capacity to create something quite special. We really do need both.

As a student of literature I used to wonder why so many literary critics deemed Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad to be one of the greatest works of fiction of all time. I attempted to read it while I was in high school and was unable to get even halfway through the pages. Later in college I trudged through it only to believe that its metaphorical dreariness was overblown. Eventually when I was middle aged and moving toward retirement I read it once again with the eyes of a lifetime of experience. I felt a sense of awe at its remarkable casting of human nature. I saw the genius of the story and the journey into the human experience. I was in awe and unable to stop thinking about how fittingly the author had tapped into the heart of the kinds of instincts that we humans sometimes possess. 

I suppose that my own journey through life has taught me that it’s good to retain much of the cockeyed optimism of my youth. I would be sad and lonely without it. At the same time I have learned to temper my enthusiasm with wariness lest I be taken in by people pounding on bass drums while asking me to believe in make believe. I have developed a sixth sense for danger that allows me to be mostly unafraid. I appreciate the dependability of the people in my life. I am more attracted to the Files than the Starbucks but I know that many Starbucks in my youth really did help me to find myself and be brave enough to tackle life.

I tip my hat to the young who are earnestly creating their own stories. I hope that their journeys will be more wonderful than heartbreaking. I would like to think that they will find their own wisdom just as I have. Life may not be a fairytale but we certainly need rain and sometimes that only comes when we are willing to believe in the unbelievable.  

It begins when we refuse to listen to each other, when we no longer make efforts to understand each other. We takes sides, separate into groups, then tribes. If we allow our grievances to simply fester and grow we are soon lobbing deadly rockets at one another either figuratively or literally. We become living representatives of the story of Cain and Abel. Anger and jealousies overcome the rational and kind aspects of our human natures. We turn away from any possibility of seeing each other as individuals and adopt a gang mentality. It becomes us against them. The animal instincts to survive, to carry out our grievances take over our ability to think about the damage we are doing. Only after the worst of our natures wreak destruction and death over innocents do we humans end our warlike behavior and attempt to restore peace and harmony in our world. Sometimes that takes a life time or hundreds of years. 

The anger that is seething in our midst has been in full view of late. On a personal level we witness family and friendships breaking apart over differences in beliefs. Worldwide hatreds are fueling wars. In my own nation I have watched our democratic institutions become paralyzed with partisan battles that are often based on propagandized lies. We were not even able to pause long enough to handle a pandemic with compassion and sacrifice for the needs of the sick and dying. Instead we broke into camps and relied on fear and innuendo to guide us through the difficult times. Our once cooperative spirits were squelched by troublemakers who made our medical communities the enemy. False prophets turned religion into a political football. Dishonest journalists spread lies and propaganda. We ultimately endured and then overcame the worst of the virus, but the battle lines that we drew during our ordeal became more pronounced than ever. Our thinking became rigid, angry and unwilling to consider working together for a common good. 

We humans are in trouble right now. We can’t simply ignore what is happening nor can we continue to act as though we are nameless members of tribal hordes intent on destroying our real or imagined enemies. We are at a stage of seeing peacemakers as weak and those who arouse the rabble to anger as great leaders. To use a very tired phrase, the inmates are running the asylum. Strongmen across the globe are inciting riots and war. They are tearing institutions apart and stoking fear and anger. They masquerade as people who care when the reality is that they only seek power for themselves. 

Here in the United States of America we are at a crossroad. We are only inches away from a collapse of our ability to govern in a way that honors each person’s unalienable rights. We have lost the ability to distinguish between those who truly love this country and its people and those who bow to tyrants whose only goal is to seize power and titles for themselves. We are a nation of many races, ethnicities, religious beliefs, sexual orientations, personalities. There should be room for all of us. We should be able to live our lives without fear that one or another group will impede our freedoms. Our government should not be a religious enforcer. We have seen what happens when religious norms for a single group become the rules for all. We should not have to look or act a certain way nor should we hide truths about the history of humankind and our own missteps as a nation. When we live in the dark of ignorance we only repeat the mistakes of the past. 

If we blindly follow one person, one group or use one media outlet to gather information we are doomed to living inside a circular argument that never sets us free. We must be willing to study different philosophies and ideas. Learning about them does not mean that we must adhere to them. It is instead a way of enlightenment that allows us to cull through the chaff that often hides both the problems and their solutions. It’s not only possible but probable that even a very good and generous leader will have greatness and mistaken flaws at one and the same time. There is no such thing as a perfect human being, but some among us are more honorable than others. 

Might does not always make right. Doing things the way they have always been done is not always the correct pathway. If we humans are to evolve and progress even in tiny increments we must be open to an alliance not with a single group but with the greatest ideas and ideals of human imagination. At the same time we must always bear in mind that some of the things that we fight so hard to dismiss are of very little consequence. Who someone chooses to love should not be of any concern to us. Love is love and we should celebrate it. How a person decides to dress or grow their hair does not hurt anyone. Each woman knows how many children she is able and willing to have. 

We all spill the same blood. Our bodies mostly work the same way. All physical characteristics are superficial. We grow up in our respective homes being taught lessons in how to live. We may be eating different foods, speaking different languages or believing different things. No one way should be deemed better than others. The rich man is not more important than the man who tends his lawn. The child born to a king is no more wonderful than the one who arrives on this earth in poverty. It’s well past time for us to learn from history that categorizing and judging the worth of individuals based on human made criteria is wrong. It’s well past time for learning how to live in harmony, respect and understanding. If we continue down the dangerous path of unquestioned allegiance to any person or belief we will continue to fight among ourselves and people will needlessly suffer. Let’s step out of tribal echo chambers before we mindlessly destroy the good things we have built together. Our grievances begin so innocently but too often they end with war. Let’s stop that before it is too late.    

I have reached a point in my life in which my calendar is often filled with ever recurring routines. I have to balance medical appointments for my father-in-law, my husband and myself, teaching/ tutoring times, continuing education classes, funeral arrangements for friends and family members, and now and again something special to remind me that life has many different faces. In the midst of far too many sobering obligations that speak to both the resilience and fragility of our stay here on earth my husband gifted me with tickets to see Sting perform in his My Songs tour. 

I’ve been a huge fan of Sting, the English musician and eighties rock star, from the time he was a member of The Police. I have been taken with the complexity of his music that tells vivid stories with poetic lyrics along side melodies that capture a perfect melding of artistry. If not for MTV and my teenage daughter’s obsession with the video performances on the channel that featured the biggest artists of the early nineteen eighties I might never have noticed Sting. 

In those years I was in the most productive and exciting time of my life. In addition to being a mom and often taking care of my own mom, I was dedicated to my career as a mathematics teacher. All of my friends were as hale and hearty as I was and so we spent lots of time together exploring the world together. In other words, I was a very busy thirty something. When my daughter brought Stings music into my home, I paused to listen and realized that there was something quite special about him. 

Over the ensuing years Sting continued his artistic excursion into many different ways of experimenting with words and sounds. Both he and I mellowed into our seventies without losing our energetic edges. His music matured and proclaimed his genius. I followed his journey with interest and steadily increased my collection of his music, including his foray into production of a Broadway play called The Last Ship which contains some of his very best work. When I heard that he had scheduled a performance in Houston I desperately wanted to attend. Since the concert coincided with my impending birthday, my husband purchased tickets as a gift to me. 

I was over the moon with excitement but also aware that things happen quickly and unexpectedly as I age. I looked forward to the event but also kept my enthusiasm at bay lest we might not actually be able to attend. When the day finally came and it was certain that we were going to see Sting perform I was ecstatic. I primped and readied myself as if I were going to a high school prom. I actually felt as giddy as I once had been when I went to see The Beach Boys back in my high school days. 

We drove across town to the Woodlands where the concert would take place in an outdoor venue, the Cynthia Woods Pavilion. We dined on seafood and toasted each other with wine as we both anticipated the performance. It was all rather magical in that our timing was in perfect sync with no hiccups. We even found a great parking spot and walked right to our seats only minutes before the show started. The weather that had been dreadfully hot for weeks had turned into a lovely fall coolness that only required a sweater for comfort. 

It felt as though nothing could have been any better, but as soon as Sting began to sing it was indeed far better than I might even have imagined. He chose a mix of his most popular songs, blending one tune with the next in an almost orchestral movement. He was fit and trim and up to the task of delivering one song after another with energy, excitement, and perfect pitch for over ninety minutes. He had the diverse audience in the palm of his hands as we ultimately stood clapping, dancing and singing along at the climatic end. 

Sting did not disappoint me or my husband or any of his diverse fans. He took me back to a time in my life that was almost as perfect as the performance that we watched. The music reminded me of laughter and joy with my family and friends. It was a journey back to a time when anything seemed possible with a soundtrack that was glorious. Despite the arthritis in my knees that was tweaked by the cold, I literally danced out of the concert arena feeling that the world was going to be alright. That was the power of Sting’s music and artistry.

There was pure talent and charisma on stage that night. Sting was the center of it all but he did not eclipse the back up singers or any of the musicians. In fact, he featured their talents quite generously. It was an ensemble of incredible performers whose hearts and souls demonstrated the glory of music at its very best. It was indeed a great gift to me and to everyone lucky enough to enjoy the evening with me. It will be one of those nights that I never forget and fortunately I will be able to relive it over and over again whenever I wish to hear Sting once again with my collection of his songs. We all walked along with him through fields of gold on that night and it was glorious.