In an earlier essay, Those Who Can Teach; Life Lessons Learned thoughts on the ever-present influence of George Bernard Shaw's philosophy were evaluated. A personal reflection, perchance, helped advance an analogy. We each are as the Playwright was. When young, we learn through our experiences. Later, we are forever challenged to change our perception. Evolutions and beliefs born in emotionally trying times collide. Intellectually, we may understand, to learn our minds must be open. Nonetheless, endeavor as we might, most of us remain closed. Sill, it is never too late. Greater awareness can come at anytime, in Elementary, Middle, High School or College. Let us assess anew as we look through the lens, life in school.
He who can, does; he who cannot, teaches ~ George Bernard Shaw [Man and Superman, 1903]
"A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education." ~ George Bernard Shaw
I heard the words for as long as I recall. The meaning was intricately woven into my mind. I, as all little children since George Bernard Shaw scribed his belief, "He who can, does; he who cannot, teaches," was taught to believe that Teachers could choose no other career. Educators, entrusted with children's lives were indeed, incapable beings. These individuals had tried and failed to perform well in professions that required intellect and, or dexterity. Because the incompetent were inept, they fled to schools and identified themselves as "Teachers." In classrooms, less than sage scholars could teach with little authentic expertise. Today, as a culture, Americans choose to prove this erroneous truth. Grading the Teachers: Value-Added Analysis.
Currently, I am writing for an educational organization. In penning my pain for what occurs in our schools today, it occurred to me the same impersonal approach, awareness, or lack thereof, is evident in offices, neighborhoods, and in our broader community. People pretend to or believe they " know" their fellow workers, their family members, and their friends. Yet, more often than not, I observe that this is not necessarily true. I, we, she, or he only comprehends what is visible on the surface.
Few choose to ask of, address, or answer the deeper concerns that life delivers daily; I offer this narrative and request your reflections. We all have our own tale to tell. I invite you to share yours. Please trust that I care; your secrets are safe with me. I suspect that others will honor you as I choose to do. I believe we all relate to sorrow.
Today the distress I wish to discuss is heartbreak, heartache, and heart felt feelings. In my own life, I am witnessing that many close to me are battling life-threatening illnesses. Their terminal diagnoses affect me deeply. They weigh heavy on those closer to the " patient" than I. I cannot begin to imagine the pain long-suffering persons feel. Yet, through the quiet trials and tribulations of a teen, who supposedly studied under my tutelage, I learned. What we hide hurts us most.
We must begin by acknowledging the hard truth: We will not eradicate violent conflict in our lifetimes. There will be times when nations -- acting individually or in concert -- will find the use of force not only necessary but morally justified. ~ Barack Obama (President of the United States. Peace Prize Acceptance Speech. December 10, 2009)
For years, Americans saw live, and in person, or on television screens, Presidential aspirant Barack Obama. Several mused; the man is calm in a crisis. "No drama Obama" was the phrase most often associated with the candidate. Those closely and personally connected to the potential President corroborated what was for most only an observation. The election did not change Barack Obama. His calm demeanor remained intact. Yet, many perceived a difference, not in his response to a predicament, but in the President's rhetoric. Empathy evolved into escalation. This was perhaps most evident on two occasions, when Mister Obama delivered his Address on the War in Afghanistan, and then again when the Commander-In Chief offered his Remarks in acceptance of the Nobel Peace Prize. After these events, the pensive pondered; what was there all along, Cerebral Discord, the Two Faces of Barack Obama.
Never for a moment in my life have I been "in love." I do not believe in the notion. Fireworks have not filled my heart. Flames of a fiery passion do not burn within me. Indeed, my soul has not been ablaze. Thoughts of a hot-blooded devotion seem illogical to me. Such sentiments always have. Fondness too fertile is but torture for me. I admire many, and adore none. For me, the affection I feel for another is born out of sincere and profound appreciation. To like another means more to me than to love or be loved. Excitement, an emotional reaction to another, rises up within me when I experience an empathetic exchange with someone who has glorious gray matter.
Today, it happened. I felt an a twinge that startled me. I stood still as he entered the room. I expected nothing out of the ordinary, or at least nothing other than what has become his recently adopted, more avoidant, routine. Although long ago, I had become accustomed to his face, his voice, and his demeanor, for I have known the man for more than a few years. In the last few weeks, while essentially he is who he always was, some of his stances have changed. Possibly, Barry has felt a need to compromise his positions, but I wonder; what of his principles.
Her father, a male friend, a classmate, an acquaintance who she only exchanges casual niceties with when she sees him, the friend of a trusted friend who took her out on a first date, assaulted her. She was shocked. Never did she imagine someone who was familiar to her, a respectable gent, might do as he did. She did not know that someone known to the victim commits almost two-thirds of rapes. This lovely lass had not truly had a need to grapple with cruel realities. She could not have considered the cruelest realities that would now change her life forever. Nor have many politicians found themselves in a place as unimaginable as this. Yet, Presidents, Vice Presidents, Senators, Representatives, and Judges appointed by one Administration or another have a decisive power to determine her future.
For me, it all began near a week ago. There was no word of it on the Nightly News.Nightline offered no interviews. Articles did not appear in popular, or prized periodicals. Even the National Enquirer had no exclusive accounts. Bloggers did not blast me with rumors of what might have been. The story, while sensational, did warrant banner headlines. After all, neither person was as widely known as former Presidential aspirant John Edwards is. The woman may or may not have had a history that would titillate many a reader. I know not whether this thirty or forty-ish female was the mother of what the media would wish to label a "love child." I feel certain that her name is not Rielle Hunter or Lisa Druck. She is not the fictional character, Alison Poole. She was but a real person looking for love, as was he, in a parking lot.
I stroked the chair, caressed the spirit. I cried. She was gone; yet here. Not forgotten; forever her presence would be with me. Then within a wink of an eye, seven days passed. Luke Russert appeared before me. He stood; head bowed, and touched another chair. This overstuffed piece of furniture once held the frame of his dearly departed father. While some thought the moment sweet, many expressed exasperation. They tired of the coverage. Timothy James Russert was dead. We need not canonize him. A few were critical. They wondered did cable television have nothing better to cover. A "fellow" Journalist commented, "Will somebody please e-mail me when the eulogies for Tim Russert are over?" Perhaps, tributes only end when we, the mourners pass. Possibly, memorials are personal, as are the parameters on grief.
Americans like to think of themselves as humane. We set up societies to ensure the four-legged creatures will be protected and cared for. People build playpens and homes to shelter their furry friends. We coo and hold close the littlest, most dependent, beings we call doggies and kitties. Man's best companion is the dog that sits by his side, or the cat that curls in a ball on his lap. We carry photographic images of our pals. Some store these in their cellular telephones; others post the likeness of their "pets" on a computer screen. We love the beings who return our affection unconditionally. Yet, throughout America babies are being abandoned.
How many of us live in the dark; yet, our eyes are wide open. We have the ability to see colors and faces. However, what we witness is what is within us. We notice none of the nuances that are the persons, places, or possessions that exist around us.
When we look at a friend we perceive what we judge to be real. Our family appears to be as we believe they are. Objects observed are obscure. Our own vision impairs our perception.
Imagine how different the world might be if familiarity was gained through touch. If others talked and we listened for visual cues did not distract us. Perhaps, if we did not distinguish or discriminate based on sight our experience of this planet might be different. Without the ability to observe, we may learn to appreciate what stands before us.
While I would not wish such an impairment on any one. Perchance, if we take a moment to put ourselves in the place of those unable to appreciate what we take for granted . . . Empathy is the best educator.
I feel a need to preface this discussion with an admission. I am unfamiliar with the life of celebrities not only do I know none personally; only on the rarest occasions do I go to the movies. Commercial television does not play in my presence. I hold no contempt for the illustrious few. I only find it difficult to relate to a life or the telling of stories that seem so far from my own or the reality of millions. I watch and listen to news. As was once uttered on old time television, I prefer 'Just the facts please.'
This week saw the murder of 32 innocent people at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. The tragedy is unfathomable. America has too often suffered just such an event. Our collective sympathy is due the parents and friends of the dead and wounded. We must stand in their support as the healing begins.
Currently I am writing for an educational organization. In penning my pain for what occurs in our schools today, it occurred to me the same impersonal approach, awareness, or lack thereof, is evident in offices, neighborhoods, and in our broader community. People pretend to or believe they "know" their fellow workers, their family members, and their friends. Yet, more often than not, I observe that this is not necessarily true. I, we, she, or he only comprehends what is visible on the surface.
Few choose to ask of, address, or answer the deeper concerns that life delivers daily; I offer this narrative and request your reflections. We all have our own tale to tell. I invite you to share yours. Please trust that I care; your secrets are safe with me. I suspect that others will honor you as I choose to do. I believe we all relate to sorrow.
Today the distress I wish to discuss is heartbreak, heartache, and heart felt feelings. In my own life, I am witnessing that many close to me are battling life-threatening illnesses. Their terminal diagnoses effect me deeply. They weigh heavy on those closer to the "patient" than I. I cannot begin to imagine the pain long-suffering persons feel. Yet, through the quiet trials and tribulations of a teen, who supposedly studied under my tutelage, I learned. What we hide hurts us most.
(I offer my sincerest apologizes. This month has been full of the unexpected, accidental, and unintentional. Much learning has occurred during this time of opportunity. The Old Soul [who for most is a computer] and I are only beginning to return to our preferred state, being one with each other.
On this World Refugee Day, there is much to discuss. Perhaps, the State of many unions is indeed worse than it was a year ago. I was hoping to express my most recent concerns. However, the Sweetness has had access to tools for but a few moments.
As I say this, I think how silly the contrast. I am sitting in my cozy home while refugees are struggling to survive. Many are no longer alive. Live is challenging when you are a person in exile.
I present an article published a year ago in homage to those expatriates who live large in my heart.
Yesterday morning I awoke to news that I wish I had known earlier. "Today, June 20, 2006, is World Refugee Day." I found my own lack of awareness for the date troubling. I pondered further; I wondered of our collective consciousness.
Currently, there are fifteen to twenty million refugees. There may be more. There are millions of persons without a home, a community, a family, or any real belongings. These individuals have experienced violence that few of us in the can imagine. We sit in our safe havens, and occasionally, we watch the misery on television. We read of their lives, and the plight these people suffer. At times, some American citizens acknowledge that the refugees have lost their homes and their health. Their existence has been threatened. We know something; yet, we understand little. Our lives in the U.S. are so separate from those that were banished from their homeland. It is beyond sad.
As I reflect on the homeless in distant lands, I remember, there are those here in the United States that are also without permanent shelter.
This passage is not political in nature. It is about people. When Press Secretary Snow thought of how fragile his own life was, he cried. When a homeless man helped me to recall how lovely life can be when we care, he touched my heart. Tears flowed down my face.
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