My grandson and I made our way through the maze of one-way streets of downtown Houston, searching for the Houston Municipal Court building on Lubbock Street.

We pulled into the parking lot, and a friendly man gave us a parking permit. We’d made it to Teen Court.

My daughter-in-law, Alle, signed up her 16-year-old son, Alex, to take part in this program for teens who are interested in considering a career in law and/or criminal justice.

Alex would like to pursue a career as an attorney, and she thought he’d benefit from experiencing a working courtroom.

Teen Court is a hands-on, real courtroom with real cases overseen by a judge. Many cities in Texas, like Houston, sponsor Teen Court, and the goal is to provide an overall understanding of the juvenile justice system.

Teens who’ve already pled guilty or no contest to a crime have the choice to come to Teen Court and be tried and judged by their peers.

They agree to have teens serve as prosecutors, defense attorneys, and jurors. They understand they will accept the sentence handed down.

We weren’t sure what to expect on our first visit, but a friendly man welcomed us to the courtroom. He encouraged us to pick up dinner provided by the court. Alex signed in, we picked up our to-go boxes and sat down on one of the wooden benches.

The courtroom was filled with teens dressed in their best clothes. Jeans and T-shirts are not allowed, and it was obvious that the “church” clothes gave the teens an air of responsibility.

In advance, teens know if they’ll be on the defense or prosecuting team. Six are chosen at random to be jurors.

At our first trial, J. Elaine Marshall, the director and presiding judge of the Municipal Courts Department, asked the audience to stand.

Everyone took an oath – what’s said in Teen Court stays in Teen Court is the main idea. When the charged teen and his or her family came into the courtroom, they and their defense team left the room to converse about the charges.

When it was time to begin, Judge Marshall instructed the teens in what to do and the case started. Because of the sensitive nature of the charges, I won’t go into detail, but the teenage attorneys did a great job at presenting their side of the case.

Just like we see on television, the teen attorneys asked permission to approach the judge or the jury box. They followed the rules of the courtroom, just as they would if they were adult attorneys.

When both sides were finished presenting their cases, the jurors retired to a room to decide the sentence.

One of the judges took the time while the jury was out to speak privately to the attorneys about how they’d done representing the City of Houston or the defendant.

When the jury returned, the sentence was read, and everyone was thanked for their time and service.

None of the teens who pled guilty were made to feel like criminals. They were treated with respect by the adults and teens in the room, and everyone learned from the experience.

Alex and I have been going to Teen Court for the past few months, and we both find the experience exciting, engaging and informative.

On the ride home, we enthusiastically discuss how both teams behaved, the questions they could have or should have asked.

I’d recommend Teen Court to any high school student interested in pursuing a career in the law for an up-close look at how the judicial system works.

Many thanks to those in the Houston Municipal Court building who take the time to teach this next generation how the American legal system works.

It’s been fascinating to watch the past few months. I can’t wait for next year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

If you grew up in the 50s and 60s, being on an organized sports team wasn’t an every-day part of growing up. Sports were all around, but in a much more casual way.

There were pick-up baseball and soccer games in a neighborhood empty lot or somebody’s back yard, but matching uniforms with numbers on the back weren’t on our radar.

For years, there was a never-ending basketball game in my parents’ driveway, one that finally ended when our mom sold the house.

My brothers played cut-throat basketball, and when the nephews got tall enough, they joined in. At first, the uncles gave advice, but as it became evident the nephews had surpassed them, the older generation handed the basketball over to the young-uns.

My sons loved baseball much more than basketball. When they were in elementary school, we joined the local Little League. There we made life-long bleacher buddies, and we found out what being a team parent was all about.

For the most part, parents paid our dues, made sure everybody got a trophy, and, most importantly, made sure every child on the team got to play no matter their skill level.

There are still leagues where there’s no official score – the game is fair. That might be the official statement, but almost every parent and every player keeps score. That’s because in sports, competition pushes players to want to get better and be the best.

This fall, our 12-year-old grandson played on an organized basketball team for the first time. He wanted to try a new sport, so his mom signed him up for the Longhorns. At the first practice, we quickly realized only one of the boys had ever played on a team.

The coach had his work cut out for him.

In one of the first games, it was clear our Longhorns were up against a power-house team. These kids knew how to dribble, pass, shoot three-pointers, steal the ball and rebound with ferocity.

By the beginning of the fourth quarter, it was obvious we weren’t going to win – the score was 50 to nothing. Finally, one of our players got fouled and he made the shot.

At least there wasn’t a zero in our column.

I hoped the other coach would let up and send his secondary team in. He did not. They showed no mercy. Our players walked out of that gym humiliated, especially when the other team was laughing and making fun of our boys.

I was furious. What about sportsmanship? What about being fair? I didn’t want the other team to let the Longhorns win, but a bit of mercy would’ve been, in my opinion, the right thing to do.

A few days later, I talked to a retired baseball coach, and he offered a different side of the argument.

These players were taught to win, just as our coach was teaching his players. What lesson would that other coach have taught his players if he told them to take it easy on the opposing team? My friend said our boys would’ve felt even more humiliated if somebody felt sorry for them and let them win.

At the next practice, instead of bad mouthing the other team or feeling down, our coaches and the boys on the team doubled down.

Practices went long. Drills were run over and over. They practiced passing the ball, getting rebounds and fighting to put points on the board.

When the last three games rolled around, our team was one of two who made the playoffs.

The Longhorns ended the season with second place. That afternoon, they held their heads high when they walked out of the gym, a medal around their necks. Their air of pride and confidence was quite a bit different from a few weeks earlier.

Whether it’s playing basketball in a driveway or a gym, competition brings out the best or the worst in us.

In my grandson and his teammates, I saw the best.

 

This column waws originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

There’s a philosophical question I’ve never been able to answer: what’s the value of an apology?

In theory, making an apology sounds perfect – the person who did the wrong deed owns up to their mistake to the person they wronged. The offended person hears an apology, forgives, and moves on.

Apologizing has its place in relationships, and I’m here to set the record straight on a few wrongs I’ve committed.

I owe an apology to my brother, Jimmy. When we were young, probably in elementary school, we’d walk down the hill to the movie theater. Back then, all kids went to the weekly matinee without any parents.

One Sunday, we went to see “Sleeping Beauty.” Toward the end, my younger brother became afraid of the witch that turned into a dragon. He begged me to take him home. I did, but the entire way up that hill, I called him a big baby.

I’m sorry, Jimmy. You were just a little boy, and I was a bratty big sister.

I owe an apology to my brother, Johnny. When we were in middle school, we found some cigarettes while waiting for my dad to come out of the VFW Hall. I dared Johnny to smoke one. He did as his big sister asked.

The minute my dad was within earshot, I ratted my brother out. My dad made him smoke the rest of the cigarettes in retaliation. I don’t think Johnny’s ever forgiven me for that one, so brother, I apologize. That was a rotten thing to do, especially from a sister to a brother.

I owe an apology to my sister, Diane. I remember getting angry with her and holding her down on the floor, my hands around her neck. I let her up, but I’m sure I scared her. For that, and the times I chased you out of our room and hogged most of our shared space, I apologize.

In fact, as the oldest child in the family, I probably made all of my siblings’ lives miserable on a regular basis.

Sisters and brothers, I’m sorrier than you know.

I owe my mom an apology. She unloaded the dishwasher early on Saturday mornings, and I thought she purposely banged the pots and pans around to wake me up. I’d act like a bratty teenager for the rest of the morning.

In reality, my mom worked a full-time job outside of the home, had a hot meal on the table every night for seven children and always got us to church on Sundays.

Mom, I did not appreciate how much energy it took to handle all the jobs you had, almost single-handedly. I didn’t appreciate that Saturday was the only day of the week you had to get things done, and I complained because you woke your ungrateful teenage daughter up at 10 in the morning by working.

I apologize, Mom. That was a selfish way to appreciate all the hard work you put into your family.

I owe my sons an apology. There are way too many to list here, but mostly for being too wrapped up in books or talking on the phone to really listen to them. I apologize for not seeing who was causing the friction because I just wanted the fighting to end.

There were way too many pizza deliveries to our house, and way too many complaints on my end about unmade beds. I should’ve been thankful you thought enough of me to send me a card on Mother’s Day and for always saying “I love you” before we ended a phone call. I also made you live in a dormitory your first year at college. I really apologize for that one.

To friends and family I promised a phone call or visit, I apologize for getting too wrapped up in my own life and forgetting to make good on my promise.

And last but not least, my husband. I’m sorry for not thanking you enough for all the things you do to make my life easier, and that’s one long, long list.

Even though I’m the one letting myself off the hook with these apologies, they come from a contrite heart.

Maybe the value to an apology is the knowledge that their big sister, daughter, wife, friend and mother finally admitted she was wrong.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

I’m a proud Class of 1973 Baker High School graduate. We were the Buffaloes, and we had great teachers, a winning band and a never-give-up football team.

Baker was a blue-collar town, but none of us felt richer or poorer than anyone else. Over the years, we’ve held reunions, but we mainly keep in touch through social media.

My best friend in high school, Trudi, is as amazing today as she was in her teenage years. She married a fellow Buffalo, John, and this amazing couple still keeps up with the happenings back in Louisiana.

Two of my favorite people, Lynn and Al, met in high school, and I remember the day Al first met Lynn. We were in science class, and he turned around and told me he’d met the girl he was going to marry.

That was 50 years ago, and they’re still going strong as are Trudi and John. Six guys, including John and Al, were friends in high school and have stayed best buddies for the past 50 years.

They call themselves the “Sam Castons.” The wives and, in my case ex-wife, stay in touch as well because we go back even further than high school.

The friends and memories we made back then are some of the building blocks that made us who we are. That’s why what happened to Baker High School was so sad.

After the 80’s, the area declined economically. The school system in Baker was part of the East Baton Rouge School board. In early 2022, the City of Baker School Board separated from the East Baton Rouge system and created its own school district, thinking they could do a better job on their own.

It was a disaster.

Lack of money and other factors took their toll. Mold was found, the buildings abandoned and slowly rotted from neglect.

Every time I’d go back to Louisiana, I’d drive past Baker High and practically cry, seeing broken windows, litter and graffiti on the walls where we once hung pep rally posters and club meeting notices.

Finally, the city razed the main buildings. The school district is rebuilding, but the place we called our home away from home was gone.

Recently, I met up with Al and Lynn. They were heading to the Austin area to watch the solar eclipse with Trudi and Johnny, and they had a surprise gift for the “Sam Castons.”

Weeks ago, Al was driving past the site where Baker High School once stood, and he saw a pile of bricks. He stopped and picked up a dozen or so, not knowing what he’d do with them, but wanting a keepsake.

Al went back for more a few days later with an idea in mind, but the trash collectors had already come and gone. He’d gotten the last of the bricks from Baker High.

Al and Lynn cleaned up the bricks and had a metal plate made for the ones that were in decent condition. On top is a red metal plate with black letters, our school colors. Engraved in the script used on our high school diplomas are these words:  “Baker High School, Memory Brick, Class of 1973.”

I can’t ever thank them enough for saving a keepsake of the place where we met life-long friends.

What we had isn’t lost because the bricks and mortar are gone. All of us carry our high school memories with us everywhere we go.

Thanks to Al and Lynn, in case I forget those long-ago days, there’s a slightly weathered brick on my desk to remind me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The lights are off, the alarm’s set, the house is quiet.

Click, click, click.

I open my eyes. There’s a sound in the room.

Click, click, click.

It’s the overhead ceiling fan. We haven’t used the ceiling fan in weeks since the weather’s been cold outside. This was the first night we turned the fan on and, there it was, the noise.

Click, click, click.

Normally I can tune out noise. This talent – that’s what I call it – started when I was a young girl. There were seven children in our house, and we were a loud family.

Because there were so many of us, we had to talk loudly to be heard. I’ll be honest – there was lots of yelling from a couple of us because we needed to be heard.

If we weren’t yelling, laughing or playing, the television was on. I think the TV played almost non-stop when we were growing up. That’s how I learned to tune out unwanted noise – either concentrate on the people around me or the television.

When I first went to college, I lived in a dorm. There was always noise because there was one central bath area.

Somebody was usually yelling up and down the hall for another towel, to see if somebody was in their room or there was music playing.

In order to study and finish homework, I learned to tune out all that commotion.

When I moved to a house, the first thing I did when I came home from work was turn on the television. It didn’t matter what was playing – the noise was familiar and kept me company.

Then my first child came along. “Sesame Street” was usually playing in the background no matter what we were doing. This is before parents learned about the dangers of overstimulation.

Instead of mentally overwhelming him, Nick learned to tune out what he didn’t want to hear. Later in his childhood, that ability translated into tuning out my voice when I asked him to take out the garbage or put his clothes away.

That tuning out ability went right down the line to his brother. Every school morning, I’d yell upstairs “Are you up yet?” Every. Single. Day.

When Nick called from college early one morning, I was in the midst of yelling the daily nagging refrain.

“Oh no,” Nick groaned. “It’s the voice from my nightmares.”

Apparently he’d tuned out my voice but the trauma remained.

But when it comes to noises in the house, my hearing is selective. I can ignore loud music and singing coming from our granddaughter’s karaoke machine, but I jump right up whenever the dryer dings that the clothes are finished.

I can hear a cricket in the next room in the middle of the night and ignore somebody tapping on the desk in an office.

The cricket requires immediate removal, no matter how long I have to search that bedroom. The office tapper could bang out the chorus to “Wipe Out” and I wouldn’t blink an eye.

If my car makes an odd noise, I turn the radio up. If the grandchildren are over and they’re loud, I smile and let the chaos run its course.

These days won’t last forever, and a noisy house is a small price to pay for having them with us.

My husband believes the motor might be going out in the ceiling fan. As that’ll be an expensive fix, I think I’ll put that ceiling fan noise in the category of “let’s tune this out.”

That’s a noise my checkbook and I can live with.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Word came down last week that another home-town business is closing. Dozier’s Barbecue in Fulshear shut and locked its doors this week.

Ed Dozier opened the barbecue and meat market in 1957, and the place was a staple for college students and families heading to College Station from Richmond and Rosenberg.

In 1985, the Evans brothers bought the restaurant, but they kept Ed’s name as tribute to this long-respected pit master. New owners came along a couple of years ago, but with Covid and other economic challenges, the restaurant decided to close.

In a blow that affected most of Fort Bend County, The Swinging Door, a long-time favorite barbecue restaurant, closed after 50 years in the same location. Most of us had sopped their famous sauce and jalapeno bread at those red-checked tablecloths, snacked on the dill pickles and held our end-of-season baseball parties and wedding showers at the cozy place on FM 359.

When my son went back to Taiwan a few years ago, he promised his friends he’d bring back genuine Texas barbecue. He took a couple of pounds of The Swinging Door’s right-off-the-grill brisket on that long flight overseas.

He was the most popular guy on the plane.

Every small city has more than its share of chain restaurants. They’re reliable, and the foods taste the same whether you order a burger and fries in Philadelphia, San Francisco or Dallas.

But what sets places like home-grown restaurants apart from the chain is their individuality, their quirkiness, and their ability to set their own menu and prices. They make their own decisions about what to serve, just like so many of our remaining mom-and-pop restaurants.

Many of the fast food places employ our teens and young adults as they work their way through school, but nothing beats having the family that employs you attend your high school graduation. These owners understand when you need to take the night off because your little sister’s having a play at the elementary school.

Maybe we don’t patronize these family-owned and home-town places as we should. But let’s face it, we don’t visit elderly relatives like we should either.

We have fond memories of our grandparents, aunts and uncles, know we owe them for forming us into who we are, and yet we stay home, order fast food and believe the families who run establishments we take for granted will go on forever.

The truth is, they’re disappearing faster than ever. In their place will be some bland chain restaurant, a high-priced convenience store or, horrors of horrors, a parking lot.

Gone will be the scuffed wooden table and chairs we sat on as kids and our children squirmed in until their dinner came. No longer will we order what we want without looking at the menu because the same food’s been on the menu for the past 20 years.

My mom made a great meatloaf, but it wasn’t exactly the same each and every time. That’s what made it great. It’s the same with family-owned places. The dishes and meals are almost the same, but we know that mom or dad in the back fussed with the details a little to make their meals a little bit better, just as our parents did back in the day.

Chains follow the recipes down to the same amount of salt. I’ll take the variety a local place offers every single time.

While we still have family-owned restaurants here in Fort Bend County, give them your business. Bypass the drive-throughs and sit down on a patched vinyl-covered bench and order food the way it’s been cooked for years.

Do your part to make sure we don’t lose any more eateries that make Fort Bend County our own special home.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our granddaughter had a special “crossing over” Scouting ceremony this week. This is when Cub Scouts advance from a pack into a Scout troop.

Kat’s been working for months to finish all her requirements, and the big night finally arrived. The pack stated we could bring a shadow box filled with Kat’s badges and other memorabilia to display on a table, so I fixed one up.

I walked into the ceremony about 30 minutes early, and my heart dropped as I looked around. Six other Scouts were crossing over with Kat, and their displays looked gorgeous.

They had tri-fold poster boards covered with photos and colored paper. The parents had carefully laid all the Cub’s certificates, Pinewood Derby cars and belt loops from the time they were in kindergarten to this point.

One table had frames filled with photos and decorations, and every belt loop, badge and neckerchief earned since the day they joined Cub Scouts.

We had a shadow box.

That’s it.

There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re the most unprepared person in the room. It’s like going to a birthday party when you’re told not to bring gifts but everyone else not only has a gift, but the big package is wrapped in beautiful paper with tons of ribbons and bows.

Kat’s mom and I whispered about what to do and quickly started to take things out of the shadow box.

If we uncurled the ribbons to Kat’s medals, we could create a bit more interest. We unpinned her neckerchief and used that to take up part of one side of the table.

We’d brought a gift for Kat’s den leader, decorated with tissue paper and ribbons. We placed that on the table to add a bit of flair.

Still, we were behind the other elaborate displays.

I turned to one of the moms in Kat’s group and told her we didn’t realize we needed to go all out for this ceremony.

She smiled and told me not to worry.

Michelle returned with a banner for us to put on the front of the table plus extra pennants. We all dug around in our purses and came up with a few things to add some color to Kat’s table.

In a matter of minutes, Michelle helped Kat’s mom and me transform our humble table into one that sparkled, just like Kat was sparkling with excitement.

Kat’s mom reassured me her daughter was fine with the plain table, and I believed her, but I wasn’t. I want my grandchildren to feel special and to believe they are shining stars.

Fortunately, Kat didn’t need the glitz and glamor I wanted her to have. She had her family around her plus the support of the Cub Scouts she’d camped with, earned belt loops with and had fun with. She left wonderful friends and leaders, but her new all-girl troop welcomed her that night with open arms.

I know women can sometimes be catty, mean and vindictive. But when the chips are down, women rally and help each other. We’ll take a bow from our hair, share our makeup, clothes and the jewelry we’re wearing to help another woman feel pretty.

At the crossing over ceremony, the emotions I felt were pride in my granddaughter and humble thankfulness for women who support other women.

The highlights of the night were the smiles of pride on Kat and her mom’s faces as she crossed over the bridge to an exciting new experience. That was what the night was really all about, not fancy displays.

I know Kat will learn about the bonds of sisterhood from the all-girl troop she’s joining. That’s a treasured lesson she’ll carry all her life.

As a side reward, I was reminded that the sisterhood of women is alive and sustained by feminine hearts that understand a true bond doesn’t come from ribbons and bows.

That bond comes from the heart.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

My grandson and I were pulling into a parking spot at the grocery store, casually chatting. I glanced over and a tall, muscular man was running through the lot. He was dressed in raggedy shorts and a ripped shirt.

His legs, neck, and arms were covered in tattoos. Without thinking, I made a derogatory remark about the man’s tattoos. My grandson looked at me in surprise since he hadn’t heard something like that come out of my mouth.

Instantly, I was ashamed.

I’d judged this man by his tattoos and the clothes he was wearing.

I had no way of knowing what line of work he was in, his background or who he was.

I made a judgmental decision based only on how he looked.

Shame on me.

Double shame on me for making a flippant remark like that in front of my grandson.

I apologized over and over for what I’d said, but the feeling of shame and guilt hasn’t gone away.

Over the years, I’ve made snap judgments based on surface facts. I remember looking at people when I was a young woman and admiring their bravery in dressing differently or when their hair was a rainbow of colors or they wore whatever they wanted.

Somewhere along the line, my tolerance faded.

I was at a funeral recently, and some people came in wearing blue jeans. My first impulse was to shake my head in disgust and wonder what happened to dressing appropriately for the occasion.

My second thought was a mental slap. Perhaps that’s the best clothes they could afford. Maybe to them, dressing up meant a nice pair of jeans and a shirt.

Who was I to judge them?

Apparently, I’d found myself qualified to be the judge, jury and executioner.

Before I had children, if I saw a parent lose his or her cool in the store, I’d haughtily say that would never be me.

After my third and wild child threw some Oscar-worthy tantrums in public, I was ashamed I’d judged those parents without having walked in their shoes.

Now when I see a frustrated parent, I tell them not to worry about other people judging them. Those of us who had children totally get it and these kids will grow up.

The first time I saw a woman with a cardboard sign asking for food, the sight tugged at my heart because she had a child with her. My granddaughter and I went to a fast-food place around the corner, picked up food and brought it back to them.

They didn’t want the food. They wanted money.

Now whenever I see a person and children at a corner, I’m angry and judgmental. How can a parent put their child out there while they beg strangers for money? There’s agencies that offer food, shelter, and clothing.

But wait a minute, I’m starting to think. Those people could honestly be so down on their luck, they’re reduced to begging on the streets. They could be shysters but they could be desperate.

I see someone dressed in expensive clothes in the store and I think they’re blissfully happy. They have it all – money, jewelry, clothes. Looks, I remind myself, are deceiving. Just because someone looks like they have it all doesn’t mean they have everything.

There was a woman in the mall recently, and I thought she was down on her luck. Then some children and another adult came running up to her, with hugs and laughter.

What she was wearing or the amount of money in her wallet didn’t matter. This woman was surrounded by love, and the happiness on her face was quite evident.

I like to think I’ve got my temper under control, but I lose my cool more than I’d like.

I want to think I’m calm and cool in tough situations, but I’ll often have a meltdown instead of thinking rationally through the problem.

I want to think I’m showing my grandson to look beyond the outside and, instead, pay close attention to what’s inside a person’s heart.

I want to believe I’m better than I really am.

The truth is, I’ve got a very long ways to go.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

March is Women’s History Month. This is an annual observance that highlights the many contributions and strides women have made to history and society.

Growing up, I don’t remember celebrating a Women’s History Month. We studied women male historians chose. The women I’d choose would include famous women, but the truly important are the everyday women.

There were hundreds of women of all races, cultures and religions who helped create history. They’re the unsung heroes. The women who made sure the food was cooked, fields were planted and wounds were tended. They invented and created without receiving credit.

Women, like men, worked from sunup to sundown, but they weren’t mentioned as being important. These women weren’t valued, but most of us can look to our female ancestors for inspiration.

My great-great grandparents lived in Lebanon. When the war started there, our great-grandmother, Labibee, did whatever it took to feed and keep her family together.

She worked long, hard hours in a quarry. Later, she found items people were throwing away, fixed or repurposed them and made a nice profit.

Labibee carried bags of sewing items from one town to another to sell. She inspired her daughters to open their own successful sewing shop.

She, and many other female trailblazers like her, aren’t in any history book.

My dad’s mother was unexpectedly widowed in her 40s. Marguerite and her husband were in the middle of selling the family newspaper when my grandfather passed away, and the deal fell through. They lost whatever assets they had.

Grandma had a teen-age daughter, no income and a high school education. She found she could be a house mother for a fraternity or sorority. Her daughter could live with her at the sorority house for free, so she took the job.

Marguerite worked as a house mother at the University of Alabama, Auburn University and Louisiana State University until she was 93 years young.

She’s not in any history book.

When I was in high school, one of my favorite friends was Marie Anderman. She was one of a dozen children, and her father unexpectedly passed away. The government wanted to take the Anderman children away because they didn’t think a widow could care for them.

Mrs. Anderman proved them wrong.

She started selling Amway, and she was the best Amway sales person in the whole parish. She kept her family together, made sure they were clothed, fed and educated.

She’s not in any history book either.

Many of us have strong matriarchs in our family, women who bucked the system and forged the best path they could. Many were denied a formal education, but they insisted their children go to school and have careers.

So many had to work as domestics because that was the only job they could get while still rearing their own children in a society that looked down on women, especially women of color. But they cleaned their way through those houses, changed the diapers on other women’s children, and did so six days a week for pennies.

Those women’s names aren’t in any history book.

But they are in our family histories, and that’s what makes these women more valuable than gold.

They were pioneers for us. They did the hard work so we could have a better life, a better place in society, and, best of all, a chance to reach the stars.

For Women’s History Month, I’m saluting the unsung female heroes. These are the women in our families and society who did what they had to do no matter the circumstances.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was listening to the news on my ride into Rosenberg early one morning. The top story was the presidential election where the mudslinging is hot and heavy.

Also in the news was a raging fire near Amarillo, and residents were urged to flee. The newscaster ended the segment talking about a looming government shutdown. Then there was the usual litany of accidents on the freeway, overnight murders and robberies.

And, before they go to a commercial break, beware of porch pirates, people robbing you when you go to the mall and purse snatchers as you put your groceries in your car.

What a way to start the morning, I thought. It’s no wonder there’s so much road rage out there, and why people are in grouchy moods before that first cup of coffee kicks in.

I neared the stop light on Avenue I in front of Lucky Rudy’s and saw the light was yellow. I applied the brakes, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman dashing across four lanes of traffic.

I looked to see what could be so important she’d risk getting hit. Then I saw where she was headed.

On the other side of the street was an elderly lady in a wheelchair. She was on the sidewalk, close to the road. She looked so small in that wheelchair, and I could see she was all alone.

But not for long. This young woman quickly made her way across the road and was rushing up to the lady. That’s when I noticed why the wheelchair was tilted a little bit.

The wheels of the chair had gotten caught in the broken concrete. I only realized that when I saw the young lady put her purse and bag down next to the wheelchair, smiling at the lady the whole time.

Then she pushed the wheelchair out of the rut, pulled the chair away from the road and back onto the smooth sidewalk.

In less than a minute, one young lady restored my faith in humanity. She’d noticed what none of the rest of us had seen, and she took immediate action without hesitating.

People must’ve noticed the lady in the wheelchair but nobody stopped. Someone could’ve rolled down their window and asked her or parked their car and gotten out to see if she was in trouble.

But on a chilly morning, nobody had taken the time to stop.

Except one young lady.

We hear about random acts of kindness all the time, and we remind ourselves we need to be better.

We need to pay attention and help others when the situation arises.

When something does happen and we’re either in a hurry or not close enough, we hope somebody else will take the time to lend a helping hand.

Selfishly, it’s hard to inconvenience ourselves, especially when we’re on the way to work, and often running late.

So many people kept driving right past that lady in the wheelchair, and I would’ve been one of them. I would’ve glanced at her quickly and told myself she was waiting for a ride or for the light to change.

I would’ve been wrong.

A feeling of guilt and happiness filled my heart as I drove off. Guilt that I hadn’t noticed the lady on the side of the road. Happiness that a young girl did something positive about the situation.

Despite the doom-and-gloom headlines, there are good, kind people right here in our midst.

They pay attention, get out of their comfort zone and lend a helping hand.

I’m glad that young lady did exactly that.

In less than two minutes, my dear, you restored my faith that this world isn’t going to the devil.

Thank you.

 

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.