All It Takes Is A Little Love

My paternal grandfather died a year before I was born. All that I really know about him is that he was born in the Slovakian area of Austria-Hungary in 1881 in the village of Cachtice. He came to the United States in 1912, worked at a series of jobs in different parts of Texas and became a naturalized citizen in 1917. Eventually he settled down in Houston, Texas in a home off of Navigation that he paid for room by room. He worked at Houston Meat Packing as a  laborer  and eventually a butcher. By the time he had reached his sixties he had raised eight children and had plans to one day retire and farm land that he had purchased in Richmond, Texas. 

According to all of his children my grandfather was an avid reader and an advocate for education. He lectured his children on the greatness of the United States and taught them to make the most of opportunities in our country. He was a hardworking man who was proud that he owned a home and land and even a cow. He was happy that all of his children were better educated than he was. He knew that his family had been victimized by prejudice, but he urged everyone to ignore the taunts and walk with their heads held high. 

According to one of my aunts, my grandfather was in downtown Houston one day when he found himself in need of a bathroom, but nobody would allow him to use the facilities in their places of business. Out of necessity he found an alleyway between two buildings and attempted to shelter himself while he took care of his problem. A police officer came by and saw him standing in the shadows with his back turned and made the assumption that he was up to no good. He came from behind and beat my grandfather on the head with his baton. 

Realizing that my grandfather was not doing anything that deserved of the beating, the police officer told him to go home and then abruptly left. Grandpa found a bus and headed to his house. At first it appeared that he only had a headache but within a few days he had a major stroke that left him unable to care for himself. My aunts and uncles had to send him away for medical help. Not long after he died with the cause of death being officially list as a cerebral hemorrhage. 

I’ve often thought of him whenever I have heard of cases of police brutality that lead to the death of an individual. I have found myself feeling the pain of loss that the families of such individuals must surely undergo. My grandfather was still in his early sixties and seemingly had more years of life ahead. I would have liked to have met him and talked with him. It would have been wonderful to see him enjoying his farm after his years of hard work. All of that was taken away from his family on the day that the police officer jumped to conclusions and hit my grandfather before determining what he was actually doing. I suspect that if he had simply asked or even just observed Grandpa for a bit he might have seen that everything was innocent. Instead he chose to immediately become aggressive. There was no reason to hit Grandpa the way he did. 

We see so much of that kind of thin these days. It bothers me that our police officers are not better trained, better screened for violent emotional proclivities. All too often they are acting first and thinking second. It’s one thing to react quickly if someone is shooting or being violent. Becoming aggressive over drinking or use of drugs or mental illness is too often the wrong response. The punishment should always fit the crime. If someone tries to use a phony twenty dollar bill it is wrong but hardly worthy of death. If someone looks suspicious because he is wearing a hoodie it should not lead to death.

I remember a day when I was stopped by a police officer on my way back home from visiting my daughter. It was a beautiful sunny day and I was feeling quite happy. I still could not tell you if I was speeding or not. I was literally just keeping up with the traffic. Suddenly there was a police car behind me indicating that I needed to move from the road. I remember being shocked and quite nervous as I complied. 

When the policeman walked up to my window my heart was beating a bit faster than usual. I rolled down my window and smelled and wished him a good day. His face remained stern as he barked that I had been speeding. I apologized immediately and he told me it was too late. He asked for my driver’s license and insurance card. 

By then his demeanor had caused me to shake. I had to grope around to find my purse and then dig into it to find my wallet and my license. The officer eyed me suspiciously and became even more addled when I reached over to the glove compartment and had to search in there for the license. He was quite angry with me by the time I provided him with the information he desired. I sensed that my nervous chatting was bothering him but for some reason I did not get quiet. He made me feel more uncomfortable than I ever had before in the presence of a law enforcement officer. I began to silently wonder what such a situation might feel like for a younger person of color. 

When the ordeal was finally over I was barely able to drive. It was miles before I felt comfortable again. Such was the power that the officer had over me. I knew that whatever I had done was minimal because there had actually been cars rushing past me shortly before I was stopped. The anger of the police office felt misdirected and as such it frightened me. When I think of it I can imagine how some stops get out of hand and lead to violence that need not have happened.

By contrast I have been stopped on other occasions for a broken tail light or such and the officers were kind, smiling, letting me know that they were concerned about me. We talked and laughed and I felt safe and comfortable with them. Such people prove to me that there should be different ways of treating less serious situations. When a policeman sends the message that he is angry the whole tenor of the incident changes and causes reactions that are not helpful. Fright can cause us to behave differently than we might otherwise have done.

It is time that we look at how we enforce laws and provide training that is appropriate for lesser violations versus those that require split second reactions in very unsafe situations. I understand how difficult the job of law enforcement is, but our policing can and should be better. Too many have died unnecessarily. Even those in law enforcement agree that reform is long overdue.

For many years I would pick up my mother after work on Fridays and take her out to eat and then shopping wherever she wished to go. Because of her bipolar disorder I never knew how she would be feeling when I arrived at her home to whisk her away for our evening together. If I drove into her driveway and saw her waiting on her front porch with a million dollar smile on her face I immediately knew that she was doing well. If I had to knock on her door to remind her of our engagement I worried that she would be either sad and depressed or overly animated and manic. Most of the time she was just fine and our Fridays together were quite wonderful.

There is no doubt that Mama’s favorite place to dine was Cracker Barrel. In fact eating there became a kind of ritual for us. Mama tended to continue to follow the old Catholic tradition of eating fish on Fridays, so the catfish dinner was most likely going to be her choice while I usually preferred the vegetable plate. We’d talk and laugh and tarry over our meal, not wanting to rush the moment of being together and enjoying the kind of food that my grandmother used to prepare for us. 

Mama really enjoyed shopping in the front of the restaurant as well. She moved slowly around every display, usually working her way to the area where the sale items were featured. There she often selected articles marked down to rock bottom prices. I knew that her purchases would eventually end up as gifts for birthdays or Christmas for some lucky member of the family. Then she always purchased candy sticks that sold for twenty or thirty cents each. She was so elated that she seemed to be the quintessential kid in a candy store. 

I think of those Friday evenings all of the time. I miss them. I rarely go anywhere on a Friday evening because my husband prefers doing things on Saturdays and Sundays. I sit around the house and remember how much fun I had with my mother, mostly because of her innocent delight in having a plate of fried fish or buying five candy sticks for only a couple of dollars. I loved hearing her detail all of the things she had done during the week and hearing her philosophical questions. Nobody that I have ever before or after met has exuded so much joy over the smallest things. 

A week or so ago the wintery Friday was dreary and I found myself channeling my mother in an attempt to brighten my mood. I made myself a cup of tea and savored the taste of Earl Grey feeling thankful that I was in a sturdy house that had been untouched by the tornadoes that had come through our area taking down trees and destroying buildings only days before. I found myself thinking of what a delightfully happy and generous person she was, someone who would give away her last dollar and live on beans until the next payday. Suddenly I had a craving for eating dinner at Cracker Barrel and to my delight my husband thought it was a grand idea as well.

We had not been to our local Cracker Barrel in three years. Not since the pandemic had we ventured over there. Part of me worried that our all time favorite waiter, Ken, would not be there. I had often wondered when I passed by the place if he was okay but I seemed to always be too busy to stop just to find out. So it was with a tiny bit of trepidation that I went inside.

It was a bit early for dinner so not many people were there. We got a table right by the big fire place and began to feel right at home. I was remembering my mom when to my great delight Ken emerged from the kitchen with a big grin on his face. He looked fabulous and both of us jumped from our seats to give him a big hug. He was his usual cheery self and convinced my husband that the fish and shrimp special was wonderful. I stuck with eating from the breakfast menu. 

Ken hovered over us as though we were celebrities in a five star restaurant. He kept our glasses filled and gave us extra biscuits and cornbread. He told us that he was about to celebrate his thirteenth year at Cracker Barrel. He seemed quite proud of his work and we in turn praised his attention to detail and his friendliness that made us feel right at home. Silently I smiled at the thought of how much Ken would have enjoyed my mom since he often spoke lovingly of his own mother. 

We finished our meal and walked around the front of the place where all of the candy and interesting merchandise was displayed. I saw a number of items in the sale section that I am certain my mother would have purchased and set aside for a future give away. I felt happy and fortunate to be in such a place. Mostly I understood the gift of joy that my mother had always shown me how to find. I smiled at the thought of it. 

When I worked for the KIPP Charter schools we all attempted to follow it’s golden rule to work hard and be nice even as we realized that the actual definitions of working hard and being nice were somewhat subjective. The guideline was in reality more personal than a generalization. Some among us worked much harder than others and the same was true of being nice. Our human perceptions derived from the totality of our experiences will vary tremendously even when certain words seem to be very clear in their intent. 

I learned soon enough when I was struggling to fulfill my promise of working hard and being nice that I had to draw a line of self preservation in order to be useful to anyone. There were times when I became exhausted and had to pause for some rest without feeling guilty. There were moments when I had to make difficult decisions with teachers, students and parents that did not feel particularly nice. There were indeed incidents in which the kindest approach was to hold people accountable for their actions lest they believe that bad behaviors were okay. On such occasions there were regularly those who questioned my devotion to being nice. Tough love is never easy. 

I remember having to deal with a student who had stolen from his classmates. He was initially quite cavalier about what he had done, even attempting to create ridiculous stories about “finding” the items lying around and thinking that nobody wanted them. Eventually I learned that he had a treasure trove of stolen goods in his room at home. I had no choice but to insist that we make the penalty for his deeds fit the grievousness of his crimes. 

He was one of my favorite students, a very bright young man who seemed not to realize his enormous talents. He was charismatic and uncannily brilliant in mathematics. His home life was difficult but he very apparently loved his mother and worked to help her with expenses. I suspected that his thievery was intended as a way to make some extra cash for what he believed was a good cause, but it was nonetheless wrong. He saw my disappointment as I spoke to his mother about what he had done. I also witnessed part of the problem when his mom defended him with many weak arguments meant to forgive his actions. 

I suspect that the poor woman thought she was being kind and loving, but I felt that by not holding her son accountable she was teaching him a terrible lesson. True kindness would have been to tell him that it is never right to do bad things even for seemingly good reasons. As it was the boy worried that I hated him because I stood firm regarding his punishment. I had to explain to both him and his mother that I hated what he had done, but I would always love him. Such a concept seemed foreign to them. They were confused that I would hate the sin but not the sinner. To me it was all about truly being nice. 

I recently saw a variation of the KIPP mantra that was Be Strong. Be Kind. I wondered what those words might mean to each individual. They are so generic that they definitely have multiple meanings, particularly the idea of being strong. In today’s world we all too often  equate strength with holding power over others, or pushing ourselves beyond our healthy limits. In truth a strong person knows first and foremost when to say, “No!”

There is so much over which we have little or no control. There are situations in which we should not even consider attempting to control individuals or groups. Understanding that we can’t control every situation is the mark of a truly strong individual. Accepting that we will never please everyone is the definition of true strength. Insisting on self care when things get out of hand is a sign of a healthy mind. As the song tells us, life is a gamble and the strong among us know when to hold the cards and when to fold them. The truth is that we can’t personally fix every single problem nor can anyone else. We have to learn what being strong really means rather than emulating the many posers who seem to believe that strength lies in physical and emotional power over others. 

Some of the strongest people that I have known were also the wisest and the quietest. My friend Sharon Saunders was one of those individuals. She listened and watched and took time to consider what was happening around her and what she might do to help people. Her lack of showmanship and bravado sometimes resulted in a misunderstanding of how magnificently she combined handwork, being nice, kindness and strength all at once. The students and adults who were fortunate enough to learn from her good counsel felt the earth move under their feet as life changed for them. Because Sharon was quite humble about her abilities her miracles were not always as apparent to others as they were to those she had helped. She made her work seem so easy that sometimes people believed that she was not working hard at all. In truth she was totally dedicated to those who came to her for help and they would all eventually attest to the mark she had made on their souls. 

It’s laudable to work hard and be nice. It’s a wonderful idea to be both kind and strong. Nonetheless we have to be careful to truly understand what those kind of words mean. They are not declarations of selfless tolerance of situations or people who demand too much of our love and energy. They are guidelines for doing our best with the resources that we have and knowing when we have done all that we can. They are never about demeaning ourselves or accepting bad behavior. The wise person can walk the fine line of each idea while still being mentally and morally healthy.

I posted a blog yesterday about an ill fated camping trip and the humor that I used to describe my terror inside a tent on a particularly stormy night. Once I thought about that experience from the perspective of time I began to reconsider yet another blog that I had composed at that time as well. It too was meant to be humorous, but now I wonder if there was anything to laugh about with the topic. 

I wrote about an event that occurred before the storm, when all seemed bright and beautiful about the camping trip. It happened one night when we were settling down for a comfortable sleep. Out of nowhere came a group of young people on motorcycles with their engines roaring, making no attempt to enter the quiet of the after hours silence with as little noise as possible.

They were chatting loudly and constantly as they set up their tents with loud bangs and clinks. One would have thought that it was the middle of the day instead of a time nearing midnight when most of the folks were slumbering. I peeked from inside my own abode to see who was making such a commotion and saw that it was two young men and a woman who seemed to be clueless that they were waking up people all around. I don’t think that they could have possibly sounded louder if they had tried. 

Once their tents were finally hoisted and they had climbed inside the raucous exchange of comments continued with one among them laughing like a crazed hyena at every word that was shouted from one tent to the other. The chorus went on and on and on for hours but I dared not make a fuss in the dark. I had no idea who these people were nor what their state of minds they may have been. Besides now and again their crude language, racist remarks and jokes warned me to keep a wide berth from them. I just quietly hoped that they would decamp and be gone in the morrow as I lay awake until they finally ended their little fascist convention in the wee hours of the morning. 

When I awoke they were still sleeping which was fine with me because I had no desire to interact with them. I noticed that they had erected a strange looking flag that caught my attention so much that I went online to see what it possibly represented. I was stunned to learn that it was a modern rendition of the old Nazi flag. It certainly explained the crude comments that its owners had made the night before as they regaled the entire campground. 

A nice minority family that we had previously met was furtively packing their car and quite obviously hoping to leave as quickly as possible. I was surprised because they had indicated that they were planning to stay much longer. I nodded in their directions as they hurried to get away and noticed that they seemed somehow worried. I suspected that they did not want to spend another sleepless nigh like I had done. It did not occur to me until later that they may not have wanted to have to greet the people who had made such crude remarks about people like them. Perhaps the new Nazi flag frightened them as well. Whatever was the case they seemed to be in a panicked hurry. 

I wrote about that incident much as I had written about surviving a big storm inside my tent. I used humor to describe my uncouth and ignorant neighbors. At the time I simply thought of their behavior as an unfortunate anomaly and little more. They were more funny to me than scary. 

Time has changed my view of that brief encounter. I have witnessed the rise of neo-Nazis and fascist ideologies in our American society as well as other parts of the world. I have become more and more disturbed by their brazen fascism and the public’s willingness to accept them as harmless fools much as I did on that camping trip. I cannot help but wonder if the nice family that rushed from the campground felt threatened by the obnoxious campers who arrived in the night. I have been asking myself if the looks that I saw in their eyes resulted from other interactions with such people in the past. Did they feel that they were somehow in danger or did they simply want to shelter their children from the hideous remarks that the self proclaimed neo-Nazis had made during the night. Either way, thinking of that moment and putting it into context with both the past and the present gives me the chills. 

I have been deciding of late that these kind of people are no joke. While their numbers are still rather small, I am reminded that so were the original followers of Adolf Hitler. Inattention and silence set the stage for the horrors that happened in Germany during that dreadful era. Can we be certain that such things will not arise again when we witness a growing boldness in attacking minorities based on race, nationality, sexual preference, religious beliefs and the like? How can we not be complicit with their rants when we look the other way and just laugh as I did? Assuming that such people are harmless and silly is not the right response. History has proven that we must take their proclamations seriously and make certain that they are unable to follow through with their threats. 

We’ve been far too permissive when it comes to calling out those who would call for racial purity or who would deny the rights of those who are different from themselves. It is a slippery slope that becomes more and more dangerous the longer we allow such poison to seep into our politics and beliefs. When I remember the fear on the faces of the family who left the campground so quickly I see clearly that neo-Nazis are no laughing matter. We must be aware of what they hope to accomplish and put barriers to that in their way. They are not just ignorant and annoying. They are a threat to our democracy. 

My blogging really took off several years ago when I posted a comical piece about a camping trip gone bad. I literally dashed off my impressions from inside a tent that was collapsing under a heavy rainstorm while lightning flashed every few minutes. I ultimately abandoned my leaky lodging for the safety of my car which I moved into the parking lot of the campground bathroom in case a tornado alert forced me to seek shelter in a more sturdy place. To say that I endured a night from hell would be an understatement, especially when I saw the destruction that had taken place once the storm was gone and daylight came again. 

My immediate reaction was to abandon all hope of staying when I saw the damage done to trees and much more substantial trailers than my tiny tent. Even though we had already paid for several more nights of living in nature, We decided that the wisest thing we might do is to pack up and leave. I became even more certain that we had made the right decision when we informed that workers in the campground office that that we were cutting our visit short after the frightening night we had spent during the storm. 

To my dismay they nodded with concern and mentioned that during the height of nature’s fury they had worried about us sheltering in a tent. They noted that most of the other tenters had left as had many of the folks in sturdier trailers. They mentioned that several of the cabins were empty and they had thought of directing us to the safety of one of those structures, but they just never got around to making the offer as they patrolled the area. 

Of course I was stunned that they had thought so little of our safety that they had become occupied with other tasks. Then again I realized that we only had ourselves to blame for being so brash as to believe that we would be okay in the middle of flood and tornado warnings. If we had kept our heads we most surely would have hopped into our car and headed for the nearest hotel instead of composing a riotously hilarious blog about our situation in an effort to calm our fears. It’s funny how we humans often put on a face of bravado when faced with situations that frighten us. 

I thought about this memory today because a dangerous winter storm came our way recently. Most folks simply continued with their normal routines, but somehow the forecasts sounded oddly ominous and reminiscent of that ill fated camping trip of long ago. I had a series of four teaching sessions scheduled for that day, but rather than driving to the homes of my students and enduring uncertain weather I decided to err in favor of caution this time around. I still have my Zoom account from the days of Covid and I requested that my students tune in to my lessons remotely. 

As the hours ticked by and very little had happened in the way of vicious weather I began to feel that perhaps I had overreacted to the warnings about possible flash flooding, hail, strong winds and tornadoes. I thought of how that disastrous camping trip had changed my perspective about weather, had made me more prone to fright than I normally would have been. Then my musing was interrupted by a blast on my cell phone warning of tornadoes in my area, urging me to take cover. 

I immediately ended the lesson, apologizing for being so be abrupt, but I was teaching in an upstairs room and I knew that I needed to get downstairs and maybe even enter an interior closet for safety. I felt a bit silly when the danger passed but I reminded myself of the promise that I had made to myself that I would never again knowingly be audacious enough to face the wrath of Mother Nature with abandon. I had seen what she could do during Hurricane Harvey and had become a believer that there are times when we cannot conquer storms with sheer will.

I would later learn that the tornado that briefly set down near me would weave its way for fifty miles damaging apartments, homes, schools, businesses, cars and lives. The trail of destruction was frightening and perhaps only made better by the fact that it did not include tremendous loss of lives. Objects can be replaced or repaired but lives are so much more fragile. We would all do well to heed the warnings of forecasts that tell us to take care. 

I still shudder when I think of that night in the tent that was so frightening that I felt compelled to escape to the greater safety of my car. I hid my terror in a humorous twist of words but somehow the idea of camping in a tent was never the same after that. One more foray during a frigidly cold March week convinced me that I no longer wished to shiver in pain just to prove my metal. We gave away our tent to younger folk and opted for a trailer instead. We also became obsessed with carefully monitoring the weather as though our lives depend on our caution. 

I suppose that bowing to the threats from nature is perhaps a sign of growing older and less adventurous. If that is the case then so be it. I’ve been lucky during the times when I tempted fate in the past. Now I’m done with gambling with my life. I revel in being a cautious fuddy-duddy. Maybe I’ve finally grown up or maybe I just don’t enjoy tempting fate when storms seem to be growing ever more frequent and destructive. I want to keep writing from the comfort of a stronger structure than one made from a few poles and a bit of cloth. I’ve got so much more the say.