All It Takes Is A Little Love

“Tonight, I am sitting under my desk at Michigan State University, once again texting everyone ‘I love you’ When will this end?”

This message from a college student to her family says something incredibly wrong about our society not just because she had to send this kind of text once, but because she had relayed a similar message while she was in high school only months before. Our nation is under attack from mass shooters taking out their anger on innocents in stores, churches, schools, nightclubs, parades, workplaces with a regularity so shocking that our sensitivity to such things is seemingly being dulled. By Valentines Day of this year of 2023, there had already been sixty seven mass shootings and no doubt the count will have risen before this post becomes public. 

An entire generation of young people has grown up in the United States with the specter of gun violence. Training for an active shooter is as much a part of preparedness at schools as tornado and fire drills. Students and teachers are on as high alert as we were when I was a young person hiding under a desk in preparation for a possible enemy attack during the Cold War. Each of us has come to realize that there may come a time when we have to react quickly if a shooter enters our space. As citizens we know something has gone terribly wrong, but we argue about what we must do to quell the bloodshed that takes innocents so horrifically from our midst. 

Talk is cheap. Thoughts and prayers are nice, but they somehow feel hollow when we have allowed years to pass since Columbine and the many other locations of violence without doing anything of real substance. Seemingly the growth of such incidents feels exponential as we do little to quell the hurt and loss of wonderful people wrought by predators with guns. Politics and power seem more likely to win the day than serious discussion of the issues and development of laws and precautions that might stem the tide of such incidents. Our nation and its people are sick and weary. Our young ask us why we care so little about them that we cling to the status quo and become ever more insistent on using bandaids to patch the wounds of gun violence. 

We desperately need peacemakers and brilliant legislators in our midst who know how to bring about meaningful protections for our nation. We can’t just build moats around our public places and post cannons and guards to keep danger at bay. We have to honestly look at ourselves and ask very difficult questions about what we have been doing wrong. How have we betrayed our children by becoming a country with more guns than people? Why have we ignored mental illness as though it is a dirty little secret that must be locked away in the attic? Why do those that we elect to lead us only pander to those willing to finance their campaigns rather than seeking to do the right thing? How has our religion become so twisted that we conflate guns with God? How can we just keep moving on to the next event without ever addressing the losses of innocents and innocence?

My tears have done nothing. I write about finding solutions and fewer people read my words. We don’t want to talk about this monster in our midst. We tell ourselves that freedom to accumulate arsenals is more important than the “occasional” incident. We can’t seem to face the truth of our situation which grows more and more out of hand with the passage of time. All of the studies in the world regarding what we should do are of no use if we remain at an impasse. Those Christmas cards of entire families proudly holding their guns create horror shows yet to come. 

I for one have lost my patience. I want those who represent me to quit pandering to the NRA and gun salesmen everywhere. I want them to stop running for office and blindly groveling to a base that seems to think that the second amendment to our Constitution entitles us to creating little armies in every home. I will no longer only cry and fret over the latest tragedy. I don’t want time spent worrying about a drag show that few will ever see. I am not so concerned about what we might read in books in our public places. I do believe that not one of us other than those in the military or law enforcement require an assault weapon. I think it should be more difficult to buy a gun than apply for admission to a university. I think that we have to really invest in improved mental health resources. We can even make our public places safer if we think that will help. Whether or not we responded to Covid properly or adequately is far less important than facing the issue of mass shootings head on and with reasoned cooperation. Let’s not argue about defaulting on our debt. Let’s pay our bills and then convene a national effort to quell these violent attacks. Let’s show our young that we really do care more about them than arguing over how a Super Bowl should be run. 

I will always be a teacher. I will always remember discussions with my students regarding what we would do if a shooter came to our campus. I recall drills and even a time when we went into a lockdown because a shooter was on the loose in our area. I felt the responsibility for the lives of my students in the most visceral way. It’s time to end the insanity of our adoration of a gun culture. It’s past time in fact. We can no longer delay. 

When I was a child segregation still had a stranglehold on the south. I recall being confused by the reality of the times. It made little sense to me that there were two sets of water fountains and bathrooms for whites and blacks. I often rode the city bus to downtown and never understood why there was a line of demarcation that kept me apart from the Black children. I actually thought it would be way more fun to ride in the back of the bus. I did not realize that the Black people sitting there had no other choice. It never really occurred to me that I never saw a Black student at my school. It was not until a summer visit to my grandparents’ farm in Arkansas that I became aware of a brewing struggle in the civil rights movement that would eventually become a passionate cause for me. 

Whenever we visited my grandparents we always ended up sitting on their screened in front porch during the hottest part of the day. There the adults would discuss topics that did not always make sense to me, but one day in a summer of sixty three years ago they spoke of pending efforts to integrate Arkansas schools. The topic caught my attention and made me feel as though adults were silly to worry so much about kids getting together to learn regardless of the color of their skin. I did not fully understand the concerns that they discussed at that time. It was only when I became a teenager in the nineteen sixties that I learned how long the struggle for civil rights had taken for the Black citizens of our country. It was then that I l read about the horrific treatment of this school aged kids who had been courageous pioneers in the integration of schools. It was only then that my own school saw its first students of color. 

I was a quirky little girl who seemed to become an old soul upon the death of my father. Before he died I had floated through life like an unconcerned and happy butterfly. Everything became dramatically serious for me when he was gone. I suppose that my passion for equality and justice began on the summer day when all of my questions surrounding segregation coalesced into the simple thought that there was no reason for any of us to be forbidden to enjoy the same rights. My simplistic thinking was idealistically pure in reasoning that we are all the same and therefore discussions about living together should have been simple rather than filled with the rancor that accompanied the Civil Rights movement. I viewed the hardships of Black citizens from afar, in a retreat of comfort while they were on the front lines.

In many ways the idealism of my immaturity followed me after the passage of the Civil Rights bill in the nineteen sixties. I naively saw the battle for justice as being won and over. It did not occur to me that the same prejudices that created a furor over six year old Ruby Bridges attending an all white elementary school were still very much alive in the hearts of some of my fellow Americans. I was wrong to assume that racism would magically go away simply because a law declared the rights for all people in our country. I suppose I just was not paying enough attention, but my sleep walking would not last. 

By the final decade of the twentieth century I was teaching in one of the most diverse schools in the city of Houston. I saw the blending of many colors and cultures, but also disturbingly felt the rumblings of prejudice that smacked of the days of my childhood. Some of my Black colleagues assured me that their struggles were far from over and that was brought home to me when a relative of one of them was brutally murdered in a little town not far from Houston. The homicide smacked of the lynchings of old and I felt ashamed that I had not seen such things still happening with regularity. 

The election of President Barack Obama seemed to herald a new day of brotherhood among Americans, but then the bigoted commentary and cartoons about him and his family oozed into the public forum. I did not want to believe that the underbelly of racism was still alive. I fought against such thoughts even as the evidence demonstrated that I was wrong. My optimism faltered as the worst was yet to come. 

As we celebrate Black History month echoes of the horrific racism of my childhood are becoming louder and more widely accepted. Tucker Carlson openly hawks a racist screed about Barack and Michelle Obama without the least fear of losing his lucrative job as a purveyor of propaganda. I hear his words in horror and wonder if we got to this point because too many people like me were lulled into thinking that the civil rights work was done. We lost our passion and went about our lives while Black citizens were still feeling the sting of racism. We thought that warnings from our Black friends were hyperbolic. We chose to insulate ourselves into thinking that problems no longer existed. After all, we saw that Blacks were working alongside us, living in our neighborhoods, sitting next to us on busses, becoming successful, even winning elections to become President of the United States. How could we imagine that anything was wrong with the status quo?

As we take time to celebrate our nation’s strides forward during Black History month we would also do well to accept that there is still work to be done. The signs and realities tell us that our nation and many of its people have not yet admitted that the journey for justice still looms before us. It was only sixty three years ago when little Ruby Bridges so bravely represented the hopes and dreams of equality shared by all oppressed people. Don’t fall asleep. Read about the struggles then and now. Keep the passion for justice burning. Speak out when wrong is done and listen to those who have experienced and may still be experiencing prejudice. Their stories are as important now as they were not so long ago.

There is a great deal of talk today about the role of education in brainwashing or grooming students to accept particular sets of beliefs. The question is whether or not schools that present alternative points of view about race, diversity, women and lifestyles are actually attempting to indoctrinate students or instead teaching them to think critically about different points of view. Considering whether or not those who would ban certain ideas while pushing others may in fact be the ones engaged in whitewashing the truth further muddies the water. Is it a good thing to let students hear about and discuss controversial topics or should we shield them from ideas and philosophies that may cause them to view the world without rose colored glasses?

Years ago I took a series of lessons on “critical thinking.” For four Saturdays in a row I sat through eight hour sessions describing what critical thinking is and how to show students methods for looking at the world, its philosophies, histories, and laws from different points of view so that they may understand how and why individuals, groups and organizations are affected by the totality and reality of the past, present and future. It was one of the most enlightening educational experiences of my life and I became convinced that our very future depends on the ability of each individual to carefully assess everything thing they see and hear.

I suppose that I had an aha moment during that training when we had to read six descriptions of “the shot heard round the world” that signaled the start of the American Revolution after gunfire was exchanged at Lexington and Concord. One of the accounts was from a colonist who was an eyewitness, another came from a British soldier who was also there. One came from a colonial journalist who heard about the incident and then wrote about it. Yet another came from a British soldier who had been captured and imprisoned but was not present when the event occurred. Even Winston Churchill wrote about the incident in an historical tract years later. The final entry was from an author who had done painstaking research using primary and secondary sources. 

The eye witness accounts were totally at odds with one another. It seemed as thought the reports were from two different events. The hearsay writings while concurrent with the revolution were more the stuff of propaganda that depended on who had relayed the story. Finally the history written years later by Churchill seemed slanted in favor of colonialism while the one written with the intent of presenting all of the differing points of view with great honesty felt the most authentic. Nonetheless I realized that we each have filters that sometimes distort our views of the world. To get a full picture we need to hear all of the voices. Only then do we begin to realize the complexity of the world around us. There are few easy answers about anything. 

One of the things I liked best about being on my high school debate team is the gathering of data to support both pro and con arguments on a particular topic. My own views meant nothing. What I was tasked with doing was to be able to convince the judge that my side of the argument was the most persuasive. I learned how to parse statements to find the imperfections in them. It made me realize that there is often more to a topic than my initially limited view of it. I learned how to use data and facts and rebuttals to seek truth. It was a life changing process for me. 

I grew up in a relatively isolated bubble that was safe and filled with love and opportunity. I would later learn about a darker side of life, and while it sometimes saddened me, I understood that I would better be able to serve my country by knowing the full truth rather than a childlike bit of propaganda. I remember thinking as a youngster that I had to sing Dixie and boo the Battle Hymn of the Republic because I lived in the south. Imagine my utter shock when I learned that my great grandfather had fought for the Union Army even though he was born in the south. Think of how the scales fell from my eyes when I learned more details about the Civil War in college and from books that I read. Suddenly I understood that horrific era armed with knowledge and the ability to ask important questions. I learned how to view slavery from the point of view of those who were in bandage and whose descendants were still struggling for equality and justice. Such revelations made me appreciate my education and respect those who had been willing to tell me truths. It did not make me adopt a certain point of view or even to feel guilty or hate my country. It led me to a reasoned and adult reality that allowed to me see what had been good and what had been bad about our history and what is now right and what is still wrong.  

Learning even the ugly parts of humankind does not indoctrinate. I enlightens. It is a freeing experience to hear differing accounts of life. Banning uncomfortable books or ideas is the worst possible idea for maintaining a thinking citizenry capable of defending freedom and democracy. Information and truth and transparency should be the tools for making our young strong, not shielding them and pretending that certain things do not and never did exist. Students are far more resilient than we think. They know a lie from a truth. Nothing excites them more than realizing that adults respect them enough to let them hear about the world from from any voices, not just some carefully doctored recitation of western civilization. 

The world is a big place with many cultures and ways of doing things. We would do well to teach our children about all of it and show them how to weigh the differing ideas in a careful and critical way. Otherwise we really are indoctrinating them and when they find out what we have done one day they will be disappointed and angry. We are a country of many ideas. We don’t need to emulate places like Russia or China or Iran where free thinking is quashed. Put the books and the AP courses and the diversity back in the schools. Our hope for the future depends on such freedom to learn and think.

The human body fascinates me. I’m not interested in knowing all of the technical terms related to our anatomies, but reading about how our many parts work or don’t work is like unraveling a great mystery. In particular I am fascinated with our brains. I gobble up articles about new findings regarding the ways that our minds determine so much of who we ultimately become. There is a delicate balance between heredity/DNA, physical processes, and the psychology garnered from our environment. The activity inside our brains holds the key to understanding how and why there are such differences between one individual and another on multiple levels of human activity. 

Truth be told, I have always been fascinated by studies of psychology and neurology. I believe that many of the keys to why we are often so different in our habits and our beliefs might be found in the workings of our brains. Many of the habits that we attribute to good or bad behaviors may instead be the work of activity inside our brains over which we have little control. Sadly, we have been slow to attempt to learn about the incredible happenings inside our brains out of superstitions and fears that learning about how this magnificent processing unit in our bodies works may somehow be akin to playing god. 

It has only been since the beginning of the twentieth century that earnest detective work has been done by pioneering doctors and scientists intent on learning as much about the brain as we now know about the other organs that regulate our lives. We are far behind where we might have been if studies had taken place earlier, because in the past the taboos associated with unlocking the hidden workings of how we think and feel were seemingly too personal to dare to study. Now we know better.

With modern day imaging and a century of devoted research we are learning more and more all the time about the things our brains do and what sometimes makes them feel broken. While we do understand the importance of individual environments on each of us, there are still questions about what causes mental disorders and how they can be corrected  much like we mend hearts and treat cancers. 

I recently read a most interesting piece about obesity. It pointed out that societies have often shamed those who are overweight. We tend to believe that those who eat too much are simply lazy and glutenous sloths. We point to thin people as examples of having enough resolve to push away from the table and take the time to exercise regularly. We praise our lower weight people for showing us to live the best life. Instead there is evidence that they are simply the lucky possessors for brains that effectively monitor their eating. Those of us who are not continuously hungry do not understand that there are indeed conditions caused by a brain dysfunctions that make some people painfully hungry all of the time. It is as though the on/off switch in their brains that should be telling them that they are full does not work. 

Researchers are more and more agreeing on the hypothesis that it is a malfunction of the brain that is causing many people to want to eat all of the time. Studies are showing that such behavior begins in childhood because in reality the brain is not properly sending the signals that monitor the intake of food. Over time psychological issues surrounding eating also take hold. That person who can’t seem to stop gorging on food may indeed feel hunger pangs even after the stomach is full. 

I have known overweight people who have confessed that they never stop thinking about food. All day, every day, they feel as though they are starving and no matter how much they eat, the pains do not go away. Their situation is not so much a matter of developing will power as longing for that signal from the brain that the need for food has been sated. Researchers now believe that it is indeed a real physical problem emanating from their brains. The discovery and the fix have come in the form of drugs that were developed to help diabetics curb their appetites in order to maintain a healthy blood sugar level.    

We’ve no doubt heard of friends or family members who have struggled with weight for most of their lives injecting themselves with such drugs and almost miraculously losing the extra pounds. What is actually happening is that the medications send them the message that they are full. The desire for huge amounts of food goes away. They physical sensation that they have not shared with the rest of us is suddenly present. While this drug is not for everyone it is pointing scientists and doctors toward new insights

This phenomenon has told researchers that there is indeed a physical malady that causes some people to eat too much and become obese. They note that most women will recall being more hungry than usual while pregnant because the brain is telling them that they need to feed the fetuses that they are carrying. So too do most of us have a regulator in our brains that help us to control our eating. The very thin person may even have more of an urge to push away from the table than others. In truth obesity appears to be caused by a misfiring of the brain that is supposed to tell us that our stomachs are full. 

There is still much to learn. Our brains remain a somewhat mysterious frontier whose landscape is only minimally understood. Fortunately the work to learn more is well underway. Just as we once dreamed of leaving the gravity of this earth and flying into the sky, so too do we now understand that entering the realm of the brain may one day eliminate some of the diseases of the mind. That will indeed be a giant step for mankind. 

When I first retired I often spent Friday mornings in my local Barnes and Noble. I arrived there early so that I might nab a chair inside the Starbucks area. I preferred a comfortable wingback seat located next to an electric outlet and a table. I’d order a hot chai tea latte and a cinnamon scone, open my laptop and work on my writing. 

It was a heavenly experience to be surrounded by books and fellow silent companions who were reading or studying or creating. It became a routine for me until my husband also retired. I had not gone there early in the morning for many years until recently. In fact, because of Covid I had not been inside the store for at least three years at any time of day. I was not surprised to learn that a few things had changed, but essentially the feeling that I had in being there at the beginning of the day felt the same.

I arrived a bit too soon because the store no longer opens as early as it once did. I might have just returned home, but I decided to wait in my car playing games on my phone until a young woman unlocked the doors. Since there was not a crowd vying for seats like there once was I easily reserved my favorite chair, I ordered my venti chai tea latte, but there were no cinnamon scones so I settled for a bagel. Instead of working on my laptop I decided just to savor my return by observing the store and the people inside. 

I have to admit to getting the warmest of feelings and thinking that it might be fun to reprise my old habit of visiting there on Fridays. I loved the vibe of those who wandered up and down the aisles in search of treasures. For the most part the place felt just the same as always, a refuge of creativity and learning, a repository of wonder. It was comforting to be there without any goal other than to relax. 

I have been feeling a bit anxious in that last couple of years. I’m certain that I am not alone in worrying about the state of the world and its people. We’ve all been through a rough time that created losses of people and jobs and a feeling of security. We watched a huge divide open up in politics, religious beliefs and attitudes about vaccines, science, learning, schools, police, immigration, sexuality, different races. The constant disagreements along with countless mass shootings and the rise of violence and depression in our midst has been exhausting. For someone like me whose nature is to be the diplomat who attempts to bring people together it has been a time of difficult change. Somehow I was moved to speak out for the causes that seemed most important. I felt that silence was dangerous. In the process I opened a Pandora’s box of differing reactions to the advocate I had become.

Just sitting silently in the serenity of the bookstore was like a tonic for my soul. It gave me an opportunity to meditate in the midst of some of the most brilliant thinking of humankind as chronicled in the trove of books that surrounded me. I felt the honesty and ideas of the authors who were so willing to fix their thoughts into the written word. It comforted me to think of them. 

I had been impressed with Michelle Obama’s newest book and I wanted one of my daughters to enjoy the experience of reading it as well, so I finally surrendered my chair and wandered through the rows of books in search of a copy for her. Luckily it was featured on one of the tables in the main aisle. I grabbed a copy but continued my slow walk through the stacks of books and magazines and quirky pens and cards and games. I somehow felt that surely this must be a close approximation to heaven on earth. I was in my element. I was with my people.

I don’t think a month’s worth of therapy sessions with a counselor would have served me as well as my foray back into Barnes and Noble. In that stunning atmosphere I was able to consider my place in the world and what is most important to me. I remembered how reading and learning has always served as a panacea for all of my worries and woes. I am admittedly and proudly bookish. I no longer worry that my admission might classify me as a nerd. In fact I am sometimes a bit too boastful about who I am and how much I enjoy reading just about anything. 

I suppose that I am very much my father’s daughter. His idea of fun was visiting a library or bookstore. I cut my teeth on accompanying him to his favorite repositories. I feel his spirit every single time I am in such a place. I suppose that I need to go back more often. Maybe I don’t need to do it every single week, but now and again an early morning trip to Barnes and Noble might be just what I need to rearrange my thoughts and realize that we humans have been dealing with problems and conflict for centuries. Somehow the good seems to always find a way to solve the problems we face. The way forward is all there in the stories and histories.