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Brotherhood of Man

My parents not only talked the talk but walked the walk when it came to being compassionate individuals. Injustice was often a topic of dinner conversation in our home. Staunch believers in the democratic ideal of favoring social equality, they gladly shared their hard-earned dollars to support systems that supported the underprivileged. When I was in junior high school my beautiful, blond, blue-eyed baby brother was born. Then my parents adopted my beautiful, brunette, brown-eyed baby sister, who was discovered as a newborn suffering from pneumonia on an impoverished Indian reservation, then placed in abusive foster care for nine months before coming to us. Because she had not been held, her little back muscles were unable to support her upper body in a sitting position. She had been undernourished, her body ravaged by rickets, her baby teeth little brown stumps. Scars from cigarette burns were visible on her arms and legs. And she flinched whenever a woman's hand came near her face.

For a time, we also took in her cousins, two adorable brothers -- eight and ten years old -- as foster children. My mother worked tirelessly keeping house, washing clothes and preparing meals for the nine of us without a complaint. My baby sister was a night owl; Mom operated on very little sleep. One brother wet the bed; every morning my mother hugged him and changed his bedding without a negative word. The younger brother seemed happy, virtually untraumatized by his tumultuous, ungrounded childhood but his big brother wore his heart on his sleeve. Once they felt they could trust their new family, they began calling my parents "Mom and Dad."

After a year and a half, my father began to withdraw. His heart was big enough, but he wasn't emotionally equipped to handle so much need from so many children. We girls grew up knowing better than to ask; my new brothers couldn't help themselves. It was deeply painful for us when my brothers had to leave. (I never fully recovered from the guilt.) At the time, I was infuriated with my father for being "hypocritical" and I let him have it! I now understand how anguishing it must have been for him, too, when the boys began calling him "Mr. Gorham" again.

There is so much need in the world. Countries a hemisphere away are in turmoil but so is a child down the street. We must choose our involvement carefully, deciding what is doable, what is dear to our hearts and what impassions us to be creative about righting even the smallest of injustices. The underdog is ever present. Humankind has a history of using power to take advantage of the less powerful. Ironically, from dictators to the bully on the school playground, those wielding excessive power are generally the most insecure among us, "building their confidence" by use of force. If parents had better tools to instill compassion and self-esteem in their children, the world would undoubtedly be a kinder place. Until then, those who cannot defend themselves need defending.

Every student experiences a "bad" teacher. Through it we learn how to be flexible and to get along with all types of future colleagues and employers. Sometimes, however, something is so strongly amiss that attention needs to be drawn and action taken.

Kit was an exceptional student in elementary school and received an "A" in advanced math in the fifth grade. In sixth grade, he and many fellow students hit a wall. It was a wall that had been rumored about for years, one we were warned to prepare for with a tutor and counseling service. We couldn't believe our "blue ribbon" school district would allow large numbers of students to fall through the cracks -- until we experienced it first-hand.