Poor Souls

By Charlotte Hinger

 I was moved by Donis's last post. She raised the question about the merits of a work of art when the artist is not a good person. I'm of the opinion that a beautiful song is a beautiful song no matter who has composed it. However, I respect the opinions of those who disagree with me and believe that a rotten person is a rotten person, and that fact affects how they hear the song. 

In fact, the number of people who don't agree with any of my opinions is staggering. Just poll my daughters and grandchildren.   

Nevertheless, I'm appalled by growing movement of groups that suppress all dissention. There's no opinion to object to because anything controversial is squelched immediately. The era of passionate verbal articulate donnybrooks is going the way of the dodo bird. 

Although I'm a liberal, in times past, I've liked hearing the ideas expressed by my conservative friends. I'm sad when I read about college students refusing to allow a speaker to present a program opposing the liberal canon.

Last summer I listened to a man on a panel explain why he asked for a book to be removed from his local library. I disagreed with both his action and his choice of book to remove, He explained he was dealing with his daughter's attempted suicide and felt the book she checked out contributed to her sorrowful state of mind. He didn't want other teenagers influenced by it.

What immediately struck me, though, was that I had never--not even once--listened to a person explain why they wanted a book banned. I used to listen! Now I don't. I'm so opposed to banning books that I close my ears at once to anyone who disagrees with this stance. I've been contaminated by group think and I going to correct that. 

When I read of parents wanting to protect their children from feeling "sad" when they are exposed to some of the less attractive aspects of our country's history, I'm speechless. 

I adored our lovely music teacher when I was in grade school. She traveled from school to school within the county. Much of my interest of African American history can be traced to the stirring of my heart when Teresa Shurr led us in traditional spirituals. They made me very sad.

She taught us about people through their country's songs. To this day, during the opening of the Olympics I recall the line "but other hearts in other lands are beating, with hopes and dreams as high and pure as mine." Right now, my heart aches for the people whose "hopes and dreams" are broken through war. 

Developing a soul is painful. It always has been.

It's a Heart Thing

When I was in grade school, September and the first day of school was my favorite time of year. The odor of freshly waxed floors and chalk was intoxicating. My brand new supply of No. 2 pencils, my Big Chief tablet, my pristine eraser and my see through plastic ruler seemed to assure me there would be an absolutely perfect year ahead. My heart was gladdened with virtue and resolution.

Excitement ruled. There was a rush of pure joy in seeing my classmates once again. They never changed in the small community of Lone Elm, Kansas where I attended school. First, second, and third grades were all taught in one room. 

Recess was wildly vigorous and mostly spent in violent running games; Red Rover, 23 Scadoo, Statues, Ante-Over, New Orleans and others that would not be permitted today. They were an outlet for pent-up energy.

Come winter, the girls switched to jacks. Then, an all school project of coloring the spaces on our Big Chief tablets seemed to emerge every February. These pieces were then taped and linked together into a huge chain until it circled the outside of the whole school. My heart was warmed by this friendly comraderie. It was a group thing. By the time this worthy goal was achieved, winter had passed and we gleefully rushed outdoors again. 

Our teacher read to us after lunch. Years later, people have told me their fondest memory of school was when the teacher read stories to them. Often it's a student's only exposure to reading for pleasure.

 Another highlight was the traveling music teacher. She went from school to school throughout out county and we learned about people through their country's songs. To this day, during the opening of the Olympics I recall the line "but other hearts in other lands are beating, with hopes and dreams as high and pure as mine." Right now, my heart aches for the people whose "hopes and dreams" are broken through war. Even the Olympics are tainted with controversy. 

Much of my interest of African American history can be traced to the stirring of my heart when Teresa Shurr led us in traditional spirituals. Music played a huge role in my educational experience. Folk music added to my understanding of geography.

Newspapers this week are filled with tales of little children terrified to go back to school. No wonder! As a highly sensitive child, I don't know how I would have survived emotionally if my school had been subjected to carnage. My heart would have stopped.

How can today's children focus? Is their terror lessened when they see armed officers patrolling the halls, or does their presence add to the children's unease? What about the mental health of the poor teachers who are expected to be brave, self-sacrificing, and ever alert to the threat of danger? 

The contrast between my school days and the experiences of today's children could not be greater. Each new school shooting breaks my heart.