All It Takes Is A Little Love

When I was in high school my English teacher insisted that each of us read one book a week and then write a review of it. He told us that he wasn’t looking for a synopsis of the plot but rather an analysis of the writing. He also demanded that we read the works of different authors and genre. With such a hefty assignment I soon found myself running out of new material to read and looked to some of my fellow classmates to suggest works that I might not otherwise think of considering. It was in that way that I learned about a novel called Cry the Beloved Country which a friend insisted would change my life. 

The book by Alan Paton was a character study of souls caught up in the racism, segregation and violence in South Africa in a time just before apartheid became a law that would cruelly dominate the nation for almost half a century. The story would burn a hole in my heart with its unflinching tale of humans attempting to navigate in situations that were destined to end in tragedy. At the same time it offered hope in demonstrating that even in the face of injustice and cruelty humans sometimes find ways to exhibit their most honorable qualities.

I loved the lyrical feel of the book and the descriptions of the grandeur of South Africa in contrast to the grotesqueness of the cities where three fourths of the citizens toiled in desperation and poverty. It painted a  picture of hope in what should have been a hopeless time. It was a story of love of family and of a place that had once been gloriously free. It immediately became one of my all time favorites even as I had little true understanding of what was really happening in that part of the world.

There is so much history to unfold that we tend to concentrate only on the parts that seem to be associated with ourselves. I was able to recite much about the Untied States and even the highlights of Europe but my knowledge was limited to sweeping ideas rather than providing an intimate portrait of people from cultures different from my own. I suspect that my interpretation of Cry the Beloved Country was influenced by stereotypes of Africa painted by movies and stories rather than reality. I knew nothing about the complex history of colonialism in South Africa and other parts of that continent. For that matter I did not totally comprehend the multiple layers of differing tribes, cultures and nationalities that had created a powder keg of discrimination and misery. I did not fully understand the underlying essence of the characters. 

I suppose that my long ago assessment of the story was grossly naive because I did not take the time to arm myself with facts about the political undercurrents that resulted in laws that strictly divided the people of South Africa into groups based mostly on the color of their skin. I could not have known how truly horrific life in crowded cities actually was for people being dominated in their own land. I was still too clueless to see the parallels between slavery in my own country or the domination of native Americans that is a stain on our history. I was still in a gullible and uneducated state of mind. It would be only later that I delved below the surface of the kind of human situations that leave certain people and groups pushed aside as though they are of little worth. 

I’ve been thinking about all of those things for sometime now. I see the horrific treatment of differing groups in my own country. The stereotyping and propaganda being used to banish them from our society is breathtaking. I find myself wondering why we humans seem to think that there are good reasons to classify people into haves and have nots. I wonder why any of us seem to believe that we are somehow better than anyone else. Why do we constantly decide to punish those who are different as though they are somehow inferior and must know our wrath? Why don’t we take the time to get to know and understand people rather than to constantly judge them?

We humans have a long history of turning those whom we fear into monsters without taking the time to get to know and understand them. We force religion and political thoughts on others. We gather in groups, tribes, nationalities that make us comfortable and shun those that feel unfamiliar and strange. Our tragedies are built on the fears that make us cruel. . 

Some of my earliest memories with my father revolve around humor. He loved comedy whether it came in a cartoon, a book or a television program. His laughter would reverberate throughout the house filling the rooms with a kind of unadulterated joy. Comedy was second only to Texas A&M football in his list of favorite pastimes and he often shared his passion for both with me even though I was still a very young child. Somehow he understood the importance of laughter and left me a legacy of moments when we giggled together at the antics of Red Skelton, Jackie Gleason, Groucho Marx, Sid Caesar, Bob Hope, Jack Benny, and Jonathan Winters. I knew them all and reveled in the joy that they brought into our home. 

I may have watched some of the best comedians on the planet with my dad but unlike him I have never been particularly good at delivering a joke with the skill needed to bring down the house in gales of laughter. Somehow I always mess up the punch line or mangle the recitation enough to end up with my audience staring at me in dead silence. I learned a long time ago that I can totally enjoy a good joke but I do best not to even attempt to be humorous. It’s a skill better honed by my youngest brother who didn’t even have time to yuck it up with our father but somehow received his tickle bone genes. My daddy’s DNA seems to be very much intact inside the mind of the one person on this earth who looks, acts and sounds the most like him, my brother, Pat. 

One of the things I love most about people is their ability to laugh at the world around them. Having a great sense of humor is a necessity most especially in difficult times. I don’t like jokes that purposely hurt people but I do love a good dig at society’s flaws. I don’t think it is funny to poke fun at races or cultures but taking aim at the often ridiculous ideas of politicians is fair game in my mind. I love a really good editorial cartoon or a creative meme that somehow says it all. I often find myself wishing that my father had lived long enough to enjoy the genius of people like Robin Williams and George Carlin. I have little doubt that he would be tuning in to Saturday Night Live each week. It was the creativity of a joke that tickled his funny bone. 

I have to admit that social media is a treasure trove of jokes that my dad would have loved. I see things every single day that make me let out a hardy laugh. The act of giggling is almost medicinal to me. It makes me feel good all over. 

My students almost always discovered my propensity for laugher. The funniest kids in the room never failed to send me into fits of giggling. They knew exactly how to push my buttons to take me temporarily away from the seriousness of solving an equation. One entertaining second united us in short breaks from reality and in many ways allowed us to refocus without the anxiety that had only minutes before hung in the air. 

I was often chided by some of my more serious colleagues who thought that it was somewhat egregious to allow the naughty students to get me off task. They did not know that I had learned the power of a momentary pause for humor. Those intervals brought us all together and pushed the anxieties out of the way. Luckily many of the principals for whom I worked were as guilty of using humor in the classroom as I was and so they appreciated my brief forays into the comedy of everyday life. 

I am attracted to people who like to laugh like a moth to fire. I have friends who post daily puns. I have worked with people who were so irreverent that I almost busted a gut laughing at their hilarious observations about the world around us. I even learned from an Irish acquaintance how funerals and wakes might lead to stories that send waves of joyous laughter through the mourners. Somehow I seem to seek out the joke tellers in our midst. 

Of course there are moments so tragic that comedy would feel grossly inappropriate but a bit of well meaning levity now and again is a kind of panacea for difficult times. I suspect that the jokers among us are as important for our mental health as the ministers and therapists. We humans know how to laugh because it is important to do so now and again. Even a baby understands this incredible gift that we have. 

So if you are feeling a bit low find someone who might be able to tickle your funny bone and bring out that most beautiful of our emotions. A good laugh really is the best medicine. 

From the moment we are born each of us has a unique spirit inside that guides us through life. Growing up in a family of multiple children we learn that while our DNA and genetics may be similar we develop our own personalities, like and dislikes. I am shy and introverted at heart but my youngest brother is a world class extrovert who thrives on being actively engaged with people. Our middle brother is quiet and studious and tends to enjoy people in small doses. Our parents created us but did not squelch our spirits. We are who we are and always have been for as long as i can remember.

I am altruistic. I get joy from helping others, not from achieving or increasing my wealth. Money only matters to me for how it provides me with a home and food and security. I believe in sharing my talents and whatever I have with those who are not as fortunate as I have always been. I am unimpressed with titles or power. I most prefer people who are genuine, kind and compassionate. I see myself as equal to my fellow humans in that I see the purpose and value of each of their lives. 

I find joy in quiet moments when the only sounds that I hear are the wind and the chatter of animals and children. I like to read and take walks in nature talking one on one with a fellow human about the meaning of life. I am open to the idea of allowing each and every person to be himself or herself no matter how different their choices may be compared to mine. 

I often consider the idea that I have no particular claim to knowing what is best for each person. I am certainly aware when someone is harming themselves and I try to help them to eliminate habits that are tearing them down. I do not question their lifestyle choices because I trust that they know what they want and what they need to feel whole and happy. I realize who I am as a person, what my true spirit is and I will not push my desires on others any more than I would want someone to make me live a life that is incompatible with who I know myself to be. I know what I need and what makes me happy and generally so does every other person unless others are beating them done for being different. 

Society all too often becomes judgmental of those who are not exactly like ourselves. We may insist that there are religious reasons why the LGBTQ population should not be allowed to exist in what we think should be a Christian world. Because I do not agree with pushes to change people based on our personal feelings II often ask myself why we would ever want to foist our beliefs on others. Each of us should always feel free to be the person that we know ourselves to be. Who are we to question someone when he or she clearly knows what feelings lie in the heart? 

Human variety is a beautiful aspect of who we are. It should never be something that we fear. We certainly all have blood coursing through our veins and hearts that beat to keep us alive be we are far more than just the skin on our bones or the hair on our heads. Inside each individual is  uniqueness that must be fulfilled. The essence of who we are cries out to be recognized. We are happy whenever we are allowed to follow the journey of our inner spirits.

I am grateful to my mother for allowing me and my brothers to each follow our own inclinations. Mama never forced us to do or be anything that did not feel right. She celebrated our differences and loved us just as we are. For that reason we are happy and as confident as anyone can be that we chose the right paths in the adventures of our lives. 

We humans celebrate our differences with festivities and dedicated months. We acknowledge the accomplishments and history of African Americans in February. We have Pride month in June to let the members of the LGBTQ community know that we appreciate that they have found themselves and are able to live unafraid without prejudices based on ignorance. Most especially here in the United States of America we should all be involved in acceptance of the many differences that we each enjoy hopefully in a spirit of freedom. 

I do not understand why it is so difficult for some people to imagine how lovely each person who ever draws a breath is to the world. Those of us who have faith in God should be able to see that the great Being who lives in our hearts is truly present for everyone, not just those who profess certain beliefs. I was always taught that God does not make junk and life of any kind is precious. So why would I ever think that we should shun others whose only difference is being the person they know they were meant to be.?

Think of that beautiful baby who comes into the world. He or she has the ability to lead a wonderful life if only we allow that person to grow and develop just as meant to be, The very moment of uttering the first cries of life are but the beginning of a new soul crying out to be free. . 

I got up early on Saturday. It was No Kings protest day and I was feeling a bit anxious but determined to attend with my husband and grandson. I had been to an earlier event in April and it had been quite calm. There was a preponderance of older people on that day who were friendly and determined to voice their concerns about Trump’s return to the presidency. The one scheduled for June 14, felt different given the rhetoric about protestors voiced by the president and even our Texas governor in light of the tension in Los Angeles. Friends were urging me to be careful and suggesting what I should do if things turned violent.

I calmed myself by playing my early morning word games in the New York Times. Then I donned my protest t-shirt and put water, American flags, and portable stools in our truck. Keeping busy always seems to clam me and soon I felt confident that it was going to be fine. My only worry at that point was about the weather which seemed to be threatening to rain with dark clouds spreading  over the city.

First we picked up our grandson and were delighted to see that another grandson and his girlfriend were coming as well. We stopped at a nearby coffee shop for breakfast tacos and a bit of caffeine. We laughed about the irony of choosing tacos and then, fueled with good conversation and yummy food, we headed for downtown under skies that had almost miraculously turned sunny and blue. 

As we approached Houston city hall we saw people of every age walking in groups waving American flags and carrying posters. The atmosphere was exciting and positively joyful as we realized that thousands of citizens had shown up for the occasion. Then I learned that Mayor Whitmire and Harris County Judge Len Hidalgo had turned down the governor’s offer to send National Guard troops to the city. That’s when I knew without a doubt that everything was going to be okay. Houston folks are always friendly. We help each other and stay calm even in terrible situations.

The crowd was beautiful in every sense of that word. People had come in the spirit of our ancestors and founding fathers from two hundred fifty years ago. They were asserting their rights to freedom of speech and freedom to voice their concerns which varied from person to person. What united us all was a love of our country and democracy and concern that our president and his Republican party were chipping away at our Constitution. In particular most of us were appalled by the cruel and dangerous rhetoric that was pitting Americans against each other in hateful and vindictive ways. We were gravely unhappy about the damage done to our precious institutions and the despicable treatment of immigrants and their families. Nonetheless, there was no inappropriate behavior from anyone. It was a festival of love, peace, joy and a determination to save the ideals of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Somehow we were there for all Americans and all who live among us even if they are not yet citizens. 

After an hour of speeches from political figures, veterans and everyday citizens we formed lines to march through downtown Houston. Nobody pushed or shoved or got irritated with one another. The police were kind and helpful. It had been silly for me to be worried that there might be trouble. The only sign of trouble was the good kind that leads to positive change. 

The parade of people stretched from one side of the street to another and was many blocks long. We walked calmly along chanting and smiling at one another. Some people brought flowers for the police officers. Some simply thanked those who were watching to make sure that we would be safe. We smiled because we knew that we were part of something positive and important. We hoped that our message would be understood. 

We left feeling as though we had done something very important. We reveled in a sense of joy in being part of an historical event. As we ate lunch we checked our phones and learned that there had been protests all across the United States in one town and city after another. All of them had been peaceful. Everyone had understood the assignment. We all hoped that the world would understand the purpose of our message.

We want a return to our three separate branches of government. We want a president who works for all Americans, not just those who voted for him. We want a separation of church and state. We don’t want the military to be placed in a position of hurting Americans. We want the deportation of illegal immigrants to be done in a fair and legal way. We want our universities to be allowed to do their work without threats. We want a presidential cabinet filled with experts, not loyalists who will do whatever the president asks even when it is wrong. We want the cruelty toward any groups to stop. We want our scientists and medical experts to be in charge of agencies that work to help us. We don’t want a president who acts as though he is a king, or even worse, a dictator. 

If we have to do this again and again we will. The people who came out on Saturday are loyal Americans, people of good will. They came from every kind of backgrounds that may be described and walked together in harmony. I was with them in memory of my ancestors who fought in the American Revolution and in the union Army during the Civil War. I came for the young people in our nation who deserve a good future. I want to insure that the ideals of who we are as people in the world will be honored. Along with fifteen thousand other citizens of Houston I recited the Pledge of Allegiance, hoping that we will always insure that liberty and justice will be for all.    

I love a good story teller. My Grandpa Little was one of the best. I never quite knew if his tales were one hundred percent accurate but I didn’t care because they were so darn good. They almost always included a bit of history mixed with a whole lot of humor. It was as though he could not stay too dark and serious even when describing a smallpox outbreak in his town. 

From my grandfather I learned a great deal about the last two decades of the nineteenth century. They were not quite the Gilded Age that some people like to believe unless you happened to be among the wealthy robber barons of the time as Grandpa liked to call them. He would insist until the day that he died that the good old days are in the present times. His boyhood was spent fighting cold, heat, insects, poverty, disease and ignorance. He much preferred the perks of modern day living.  

One of his oft repeated tales occurred when he was a young man traveling from one town to the next in search of work. He was in a bar one night when a man began ferociously beating on his wife. Being the gentleman that he would always be, Grandpa entered the fray like a brave knight intent on saving the maiden. Sadly his chivalry backfired and both the woman and her husband turned on him and bloodied him up enough to teach him a valuable lesson. From that day forward he never again got between a couple when they were feuding with each other and he warned me and my brothers to heed his advice. He would always end this little fable by winking and insisting that he at least was successful in bringing the two lovebirds back together.

That’s the way Grandpa liked to tell a story. Every single one spoke to his outlook on life. Somehow he found hopefulness even in the most dire moments. He never failed to notice that there were always far more good people around at any moment than bad ones and he marveled at the human ability to adapt. 

Grandpa was at this best whenever one of his old timer buddies came to visit. The two of them spent hours reminiscing and trying to top each other with their stories of Indians and the many times that they just missed amassing immense wealth. I could have listened to those two all day long even when they began to repeat tales that they had already told. 

I suppose that memoirs are my favorite kind of books. I love reading about people’s lives from their own words. Somehow they become more real than when another author simply attempts to describe and interpret their impact on the world. A while back I saw a post from Bill Gates in which he suggested the five best memoirs that he has ever read. They included a wide range of people from Katherine Graham, the once powerful editor of The Washington Post, to the comedian, Trevor Noah.

I ordered all five of the memoirs and immediately began reading the first one that arrived, Born A Crime: Stories From A South African Childhood, by Trevor Noah. As expected it is a fascinating read of his memories of living in apartheid South Africa as young boy. Trevor’s joy pops out of every page as he describes growing up with his mother, grandmother and aunties who instilled optimism in his very being in spite of grinding poverty that might have destroyed most of us. 

Trevor was literally a child deemed to be a criminal because his father was a white man from Switzerland and his mother was African. it was against the law for Blacks and Whites to engage in sexual acts together and if he had been noticed he would have been taken from his mother and sent to an orphanage where he would have been an outcast in a highly regimented society. Luckily his daring mother knew how to protect him and keep him in her care. It was her courage and faith that guided his childhood and helped him to develop the gift of comedy that he shares with the world.

Born A Crime is delightfully inspiring and instructive much like the old stories that Grandpa used to spin. They have a folksy charm that has a way of soothing the soul of the reader. Just as my grandfather’s stories used to tamp down my worries and stress, so too does Trevor Noah reach into my heart and show me how to calm any demons that might be there. His is a talent that harks back centuries to the bards who either orally or in writing captured the essence of different times and places with a skill that brings them alive.

Grandpa certainly appreciated modern inventions and conveniences and I suppose that Trevor Noah does as well but there are true pearls of wisdom in learning how humans overcome even the most difficult situations with joy and laughter. We should all pause now and again to hear or read such tales. The smiles that they bring just may get us through another day.