All It Takes Is A Little Love

COVID-19 has taken me back to the roots of my childhood. Back then we rarely went out to eat. Having a meal at a local cafeteria or Mexican restaurant was a big deal that only happened once in a blue moon. The rest of the time we ate at home where my mother was the master of performing miracles with only a few ingredients. Steak was too much for her budget just as it is for most of us now with rising prices. Her idea of a steak dinner was to purchase a fairly inexpensive round steak and pound it to death until it was incredibly tender. Dinner was a grand adventure made with whatever she could find on sale. She was the queen of creating delicious soups and big pots of yummy beans. So too have I become a homebody when it comes to eating. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve eaten at a restaurant in the past eighteen months. My desire for food from outside my home has greatly diminished. 

I’ve alway leaned toward introversion and my tendencies to prefer staying home with very small groups of people with whom I am totally comfortable have become more and more my cup of tea. I have actually enjoyed not having to rush around meeting the demands of a very full schedule. Having no special plans is rather nice, and when I do get an invitation I have to nudge myself to go. Nonetheless, I really have been delighted anytime I’ve had an opportunity to be with friends. I just feel more comfortable these days with smaller groups. 

For a time I missed going to the movie theater, but I have a great sound system and a nice big television screen, so there’s not much to miss if I stay right here at home. My sofa is more comfortable than the loungers that are the rage at the theaters these days. Even better is that I can watch the film in my jammies and not have to worry about looking somewhat presentable. I can purchase a liter of soda and enough popcorn to fill a washtub for a fourth of the price of purchasing such things at the movies. As time goes by, I miss those kind of outings less and less. 

I used to adore shopping for hours. I liked looking at all of the new products and observing my fellow shoppers. Now I go to stores armed with a list and I’ve become one of those people who rushes from aisle to aisle getting just what I need without pausing to inspect items that distract me from my task. I can’t imagine spending as much time as I once did lingering in a mall or department store. Suddenly such an activity holds little interest for me. 

I been slowly getting rid of excess baggage. I’m finding that I have too many things that I rarely use or, even worse, never use. This birthday and Christmas I don’t want things. I’d prefer making repairs on my home or planning a nice trip or experience. I’m culling so much but still can’t bring myself to let go of a single book. I’ll have to practice doing that in stages. 

Life was quiet and simple in my youth. I lived by a routine that kept my days interesting but infrequently included events that cost more than a few gallons of gas. The outdoors were the source of most of my joy. I walked or rode my bicycle for miles around my neighborhood. On Sundays I went with my family to the beaches that are not far from my current home. We’d bring a picnic lunch and walk through the sand or jump with the waves. We often visited friends and relatives who feted us with homemade snacks like cinnamon toast and lemonade. Back then I loved just sitting with my grandfather and listening to the amazing stories of his life. Now my greatest joy is spending time with my ninety-two year old father-in-law. Just hearing him laugh is a precious gift.

I think this year’s Halloween celebration was my favorite ever. I almost cried with joy to see all of the children scurrying from house to house again. They were so adorable in their costumes and their innocence. Their laughter filled the streets just as I remember the Halloweens of old. Nobody seemed to be expecting anything more than just the joy of celebrating again. It’s amazing how much we lowered our expectations but ended up enjoying the moment more than ever.

If I have learned anything during the time of COVID-19 it is that so much that I thought was important before now seems unnecessary. All of my value is now focused on people and memories. My husband, Mike, and I get joy out of seeing a new rose bloom on one of our bushes. We love sitting on our patio listening to the children playing all around us or watching the antics of the birds in our garden. Sunrises and sunsets seem more beautiful than ever before. Knowing that people that I love are still doing fine brings me a priceless sense of contentment. 

COVID-19 is a horrible virus that has left death and sorrow in its wake. I would not want to wish to endure its damage if I had the power to go back in time, but somehow it forced me to change and to reassess my life. In doing that I have realized how much I had taken for granted. Now I am finding more meaning in leading a less harried and complex doing things. In divesting myself of possessions and materialism I am rediscovering the joy of simplicity and maybe even beginning to help heal the earth in a small way. I don’t think I will be going back to the before time. Where I am now is a wonderful place to be.

We humans come in all shapes and sizes and ways of thinking. With our diversity running the gamut it’s only natural that we react to tragedy and setbacks differently as well. There are the consummate optimists who find a silver lining in every cloud and the realists who believe that sometimes life just sucks and there is nothing redeeming to be found in horrific moments. Nonetheless, we tend to do our best to be flexible whenever we find ourselves reeling from some horrible situation. We look for ways to make sense of the unacceptable. We create trite sayings about learning from our mistakes or becoming stronger from life’s trials. If we are incredibly spiritual we may even insist that God never gives us more than we can handle, even as we struggle under the weight and unfairness of some tests of our human spirit. 

I am among the millions of humans who has managed to recover from the challenges and tragedies that have marked my life, but I would lie if I did not admit that I have deep scars from many of those difficulties. I am able to put on a good face because I know that people have a limited capacity for understanding how some hurts never really heal. I have learned that most humans want to be kind and helpful, but if a tragedy lingers for too long they lose interest. Thus I, like many, have often simply masked my suffering with forced smiles, fake courage, empty expressions of positivity that I knew were not true. It’s what we tend to do whenever we realize that society has deemed it time for us to move on from our pain. We have learned that the rest of the world generally prefers for us to be strong. 

Our truths can make everyone else uncomfortable. If we are lucky we have one or two people with whom we might be totally honest. Otherwise we are forced to bear up under our woes, not speak of our sorrow or losses. I learned from my mother’s experience that only the strongest of our friends and acquaintances will stick with us in our most profound moments of darkness. When she was a beautiful, happy married woman she had more friends than anyone I had ever witnessed. After my father died they rallied for a brief time but then slowly dwindled away when her tears lingered longer and threatened their comfort with her. I remember hearing people tell her to get a grip, to just pray, to think good thoughts, to try harder to be her delightful self again. 

I suppose that their advice was well meaning, but in some ways it was cruel and ill advised. They did not allow her the time she needed to emotionally deal with the shocking reality of my father’s death. She had no job, no money, no education, three children to raise alone, and most horribly, a mental illness growing in her brain of which she and everyone else was still unaware. She eventually managed to create a facade of normalcy, but by then her circle of friends had shrunk to an abysmally low level. Only the most loyal and loving stuck with her as her world continued to unravel while her bipolar disorder took hold of every day of the remainder of her life. 

There are indeed situations that are so horrific that to insist that the affected person find something positive in the circumstance is absurd. Asking them to believe that such events are making them stronger is too often little more than a big lie. In our own feeble efforts to make ourselves feel less uncomfortable around someone who is suffering we all too often reach for platitudes that only worsen their condition. The individual whose child has been murdered or the soul who has learned that a beloved family member is going to die just needs our love, not our lectures. Sometimes the best thing we might do is hold someone while they cry. The understanding warmth of our silence may be the best comfort. 

I once had a student who seemed to leave a trail of havoc wherever he went. One day he was such a problem in my classroom that I told him to get out and wait for me in the hallway. I was intensely frustrated with his horrific behavior and needed to calm down before confronting him. When I finally felt comfortable enough to talk with him I blurted out a terribly insulting question. I wanted to know what was wrong with him. I insisted on learning why he was always intent on ruining the usual calm of my classroom. 

With a poisonous look on his face he angrily responded that I would be like him if I had lost my father the way he had. Not missing a beat, I countered that I too had lost my father to death when I was only eight and that I had never once acted the way he did. Not to be outdone by my refutation he screamed that my father had left because of an accident, but his had left because he no longer wanted to be with the family. He noted that I knew that my father loved me, but his father had demonstrated that he did not care about anyone but himself. “Why should I bother caring about anything?” he blustered. 

At that moment I silenced my urge to lecture him and simply let the tears of understanding that were welling in my heart fall freely. He in turn fell forward into my arms and we both sobbed uncontrollably while we hugged. We needed no more words. There was an understanding between us that we both needed. We acknowledged the hurt that we had hidden from view in our own ways. We both felt the raw honesty of that moment and from that point forward we no longer battled each other in the classroom. He became a model student, but more importantly he understood that he was not alone, nor was I. 

We would all do well to support the people around us with understanding and empathy rather than platitudes and trite sayings that may in fact do more harm than good. We need to allow people the time that they need to work through the tragedies, losses and disappointments that befall them without expecting them to have a false optimism. Thoughts and prayers are nice, but sometimes just being that silent shoulder to lean on is the best option of all. We probably do indeed grow from our cloudy days, but the truth is that most of us would rather grow without the pains. Sometimes clouds are just dark and dreary. 

My maternal grandmother spent the last decades of her life in a rotation of simple routines. She never left her home save for a couple of times when she needed to go to the hospital. Her eight children made certain that she had whatever she needed, which was never very much. Each Christmas Eve her great big noisy extended family descended on her tiny house bearing all sorts of gifts for her which promptly disappeared into her attic. Her bedroom was sacred ground upon which we never intruded. To this day I wonder what was beyond the door that lead to the place where she slept each night. Some of my cousins snuck furtive peeks into her domain, but I always considered it a kind of sacrilege to invade her privacy. Nonetheless, I wondered what happened to the bountiful presents that she received year after year but never seemed to use. It was as though she was storing things away for some future moment that never came. 

I suppose that many of us have a bit of hoarder in us. All we need is a warning that a big storm is coming or that a pandemic is on its way to bring out our squirrel-like tendencies. I still have toilet paper and paper towels from almost two years ago, although I may finally have to purchase some more quite soon. If you need some hand sanitizer I have a bit of that as well. I love purchasing in bulk but often forget how long it takes only two people to use things up. I still operate as though I am running a household filled with children. 

I always enjoyed the stories from my grandfather about his boyhood preparations for winter in Virginia. He lived with his grandmother in a house that had no glass windows. They were protected from rain and the elements with sheets of oilcloth in the summer and wooden shutters when it was cold. He talked about how his grandmother smoked meat during the warm months and then stored it in a cellar. She canned fruit and vegetables as well. It was a full time job just preparing for the coming frigid temperatures. For him, it meant chopping lots of wood in anticipation of the many fires he and his grandmother would need for cooking and keeping warm. 

Growing up I knew many adults who had suffered greatly as children of the Great Depression. They recalled the intense hunger that emaciated their bodies. They never forgot how horrific that was, and so they always kept enormous stores of food in their pantries and freezers just in case such a thing ever happened again. I was always in awe of the victuals that they kept on hand.

A friend of mine had a lovely Mormon neighbor who told us about the food and supplies that she had stored away. She showed us huge bags of rice and beans and flour and sugar that she kept under the beds in roll out contraptions that her husband had built. She seemed to be ready for some kind of Armageddon that somehow made me wonder what she knew about the future that I did not. I have thought about her quite often and had a certain admiration for her preparations as the world is buffeted by natural disasters and strange illnesses more and more often. 

I suppose that I might be accused of having some of my grandmother’s hoarding instincts. I am always reluctant to throw things away or give them to someone who might better use them. I’ve worn the same size of clothing for decades and I tend to keep every item until it is so hopelessly out of style that it languishes in the back of my closet needlessly taking up room. I have somehow become the official keeper of family heirlooms photos that crowd every corner my cabinets, closets and bookshelves. I would be a much better curator if I were to take the time to label and catalog everything for posterity. Sadly, much like my mother-in-law before me, I have the best intentions but never quite get the job done. I will simply pass on the collection to whomever wants it one day without the stories and memories connected to what had once been treasures.

We humans are accumulators. Few of us get so out of control that we become like the characters on the television series that featured them unable to even walk inside their homes because there was so much stuff packed inside. We don’t have a sick compulsion to save every little thing, but we do have our little trinkets that mean so much to us personally, but not so much to anyone else. I still have medals that I won in high school tucked away with diplomas from my parents and even my husband’s grandfather. I suppose that such things might be of some interest to the younger generation but they are also the sorts who adhere to a more Spartan way of living. They like clean lines devoid of clutter. They fret about dust collectors and talk of consuming less for the good of the environment. I suspect that they would find themselves wondering what to do with all of the historical family artifacts that I have agreed to protect for posterity. 

We have among us survivalists, hoarders, and Boy Scouts who are always prepared. We have collectors and over consumers as well as those who are fearful of being caught without the most basic of human necessities. We each in our own ways keep things until, God forbid, something horrific reduces our treasure trove to little more than the clothes on our backs. Perhaps we might do well to consider a bit more of sharing of what we have long before we have ended our days. How much better it would be to delight someone right now with that extra coat or that treasure from Grandma? We have to ask ourselves, “How much do any of us actually need?” We might find that we can spread joy to those with less and still have just enough for ourselves.  

As a teacher and an administrator there were times when I faced the ire of a parent. Most of the time I understood that the anger being directed at me or the school was the product of overwrought emotions from individuals who cared deeply about their children. Only rarely did the discussions become so heated that they crossed a line in which threats were hurled and I felt concern for my safety. On those occasions I did my best to calm the waters or even excused myself for a moment to get help. 

I recall a particular Open House when I was a Peer Facilitator, a mentor and advocate for the teachers. I heard yelling coming from a classroom and saw that a parent was hurling epithets and threats at one of the educators. I suggested that the irate individual follow me to my office where we might talk about the situation privately since there were other parents waiting to meet and greet their children’s teachers. 

As we walked down the hallway the parent continued to rant while I quietly and calmly tried to bring down her level of anger. Suddenly she stopped and turned her wrath directly on to me. She had no idea who I was or why I was defending the teacher but she assured me that she was going to come after me. She said that she would wait in the parking lot until I got into my car later that night and then she would follow me home. At that point she boasted that she would beat me until I was bloody when she got the chance. 

I was stunned by the turn of events because I had said nothing to her other than suggesting that her concerns would best be discussed in a private setting. Suddenly I felt that I was in peril and my own defense mechanisms kicked into gear. I told her that she might want to reconsider following me because it would be a long drive (which it was) and that I lived in a neighborhood filled with former students and long time friends who would instantly defend me if she dared to become violent. She was evidently shocked by my response and suddenly became quiet and began to cry. After that we had a very productive discussion about her child. I felt lucky that the confrontation had ended with a whimper, but I was shaken up by the thought of what might have happened if she had not calmed down.

Most parents who become enraged do so out of extreme emotions of concern. Usually there is more happening in their lives than particular issues at the school. Acknowledging their pain and their worries generally more often than not results in mutual satisfaction between the parent and the school. When things get out of hand it can be frightening for everyone. When erratic behavior is multiplied exponentially by an overwrought group, mob rule takes over and it becomes almost impossible to handle any problems in a rational and constructive way. 

Parents indeed have every right to attend school board meetings and to voice their opinions, but of late many of them have turned into unreasonable and frightening bullies. The reason we have rules about who can speak, how long they can speak and what kind of language they may use, is because nothing is ever accomplished when anger takes hold over reason. It is important for all parties to understand that no organization ever wants to make decisions based on the anecdotal comments of a small group. It takes time to sort out what the majority is actually thinking. The squeaky wheel should not automatically get the grease. Knee jerk reactions do little good. Everyone needs to have patience and a willingness to bring all the disparate ideas to the table.

While loud and often obnoxious protests have to be acknowledged, it is also likely that many more parents are sitting quietly at home with far different opinions about how things should be done in their children’s schools. It takes time and effort to determine what people really want and of course the individuals who work in the schools should have opportunity to voice their needs as well. What cannot happen is to allow violence and threats to overtake the peaceful administration of our schools. Nobody associated with schools should feel afraid to simply do their jobs, but more and more often that is becoming the reality.

As a retired educator I have watched in dismay as parents across the country are flexing their muscles and making a mockery of school board meetings. I understand that it is only the few who are engaging in hyperbolic behaviors but threats are threats no matter how few they are and they are always frightening. It should not require campus police or other forms of security for those charged with educating our youth to feel safe, but sometimes situations get so out of hand that it is the only way. I’ve been rescued a couple of times by police officers who saw that a parent’s irrational anger was growing dangerous. It is a horrible feeling to be in that position when one’s only intent is to have an honest discussion about issues. 

I am appalled by the growing anger in our society. Those of us who are of a quiet nature must work together to determine how we might get a grip on the almost psychotic overreactions of far too many otherwise normal individuals to every little problem that they encounter. We can’t have people storming the Capitol every time their chosen candidate loses, nor should we have parents invading school board meetings with their gripes and threats of violence. No system will long stand without protocols and at least a modicum of decency and respect. 

I have worked in schools filled with students who belonged to gangs. They generally behaved during the day, but we knew that after hours they donned their colors and divided into tribes intent only on defeating one another. Theirs was a fruitless effort for dominion, for power, that always ended in violence and a waste of human resources. Right now we have far too many, most especially among our supposed representatives in government, who are behaving like gang members intent on bullying us into granting them power over us. It’s long past time for us to let such people know that we will no longer silently accept their ways. Sometimes we have to deal with conflict even when it is against our natures and we have to join together to get it done. 

When I was a youngster in school a couple of bullies were sowing discontent in my class. One day things came to a head with the tormentors openly taunting a very shy girl so badly that she dissolved into tears. Our teacher instantly pushed back on the abusers with a volley of words that left them defeated. She seized their power over us and quashed it in one fell swoop. They never again hurt any of us with words or actions or threats. I’m hoping we have heroes like her among us who will courageously speak out against those who would make a mockery of our institutions with their taunts and anger. Let’s put them on notice that we will not allow bullies to make our important decisions.

I have become a devoted fan of continuing education courses at Rice University. Since my husband and I both register for the various offerings each fall and spring it can become rather pricey to take as many classes as I would like, so I’ve had to carefully pick and choose. I’ve generally settled on historical topics because I’m fascinated by the parallels of human behavior from one time or place to another. While we are definitely evolving to better versions of our human selves it is a somewhat slow process that is often marked by backsliding from time to time. It is as though we are engaged in a grand and never ending experiment in social science that always seems to involve attempts to determine where power should lie and how goods should be shared. In spite of centuries of evidence regarding the errors and triumphs of our behavior, we always tend to focus on the present moment with a kind of tunnel vision that prevents us from seeing parallels with the past that might help us to build a better future. 

This fall I have been learning about the Victorian era which is far more interesting in its scope than just the long reigning Queen for whom the time is named. This was a moment of great change within the British Empire during which the colonial period would reach a peak and then slowly begin to fade. It was also a period when democracy would become more and more of a reality for the common white males of Britain. It would take until 1928, for the women to be included in the series of reforms that were enacted with respect to giving a real voice to ordinary souls in the government. The time of powerful and wealthy Lords vetoing reforms intended to provide decent lives to all of the people came abruptly to an end in the early years of twentieth century Britain. 

How we hand off power to the people is always complicated by economics and political ideals. Our systems often favor one group over another. Sometimes they even deny access to certain individuals. If only we were to actually spend more time honestly studying the ebb and flow of justice throughout history we might be more inclined to work together to create systems that are more fair and just for everyone. Instead we tend to be incredibly ignorant of the realities of not just our past, but also our present state. We take sides and vote mostly on emotion and personal beliefs that may or may not be valid. Learning history, when presented in an honest fashion using primary sources, becomes a stunningly eye opening experience. 

Suddenly there are efforts all over our country to prohibit the flow of certain kinds of information and theories. There is a kind of fear that neither we nor our young children should be exposed to ideas that make us feel uncomfortable. It is as though the idea of censoring truth is better for our psyches, when just the opposite is the more comforting proposition. 

It’s difficult to hear that Cecil Rhodes, the well known and often revered philanthropist, was not as upright as we want to believe. He explored Africa and claimed to have discovered land that he named Rhodesia after himself. Then he exported diamonds from his self proclaimed country and became one of the richest people in the world. Never mind that there were already native Africans living in the place that he basically invaded and stole. We don’t want to think ill of a man whose foundation has so generously given Oxford educations to students from around the world, but the evidence is very clear that what he did was wrong. 

If we are to truly bring justice to the world we have to be willing to look at the past and learn from it. There really is no alternative justification for slavery or for the Holocaust or any other misuse of power that resulted in brutal abuse to any group of people. We don’t need to remove books from school libraries that recall the horrors of the Jim Crow era. Instead we need more information on what really happened from the time of slavery to the present day so that we might avoid the egregious errors of the past as well as those that continue in the present.

We humans have never lived in Disneyland. Life has often been brutish and short for those on the bottom of the societal ladder. Instead of ignoring their cries as they strive to lift themselves up, it’s time we listened with open minds. The civil rights movement is not yet over and we might begin to improve on the reforms that we have often reluctantly enacted by being honest about the horrors of our past. While we don’t want to get stuck in finger pointing and anger, we can use hard truths to craft better more just ways of living together in a spirit of understanding. Instead of harping on a few individuals who destroy property or some confusing thoughts about redesigning our police forces, we should be actively determining how we can intelligently remove barriers to voting. We can honor the voices of those brave enough to tell us their stories of pain and despair. 

History shows us that our greatest moments come when we face our demons and work together to create a better world for everyone. We have to emerge from our bubbles of self preservation long enough to see the realities of others who do not yet enjoy the sense of safety and security that we often take for granted. We should be working together to provide more representation for the underserved, not less. Our efforts should encourage people to vote, not limit their ability to do so. We should all be against any efforts to gerrymander certain groups to power. The dream of democracy should be bold enough to include everyone. History tells us that truth is the road to better lives for us all. We may have to see some heroes in a more human light to get there, but that’s okay. Facing our past and our present with unmitigated honesty is the beginning of being free. We all need more history in the raw, not less.