I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Reflections

  • Ten years and counting – what lessons have we learned from the Dallas, Texas, police ambush

    Ten years and counting – what lessons have we learned from the Dallas, Texas, police ambush


    Dallas marks 10 years since the July 7, 2016, ambush that killed five law enforcement officers during a downtown protest, one of the deadliest attacks on police in modern U.S. history. The shooting left four Dallas police officers and one DART officer dead, injured several others and forever changed policing in the city. The following piece I published ten years ago seems, sadly, appropriate for Everytown, USA, today.

    Big “D”, little “a”, double “L”  – a – s. Dallas, Dallas, Dallas, another notch in your gun belt this week; more snipers take a shot at our ability to wage peaceful parades and protests  while the face of violence lights up within your city limits. Shades of 1963 when you were the harbinger of our national nightmares to come.

    I am outraged at the environment of fear and desperation that leads men to believe that shooting each other with guns or blowing each other up with bombs is the only solution to our problems within our borders and across the pond. Prejudices over skin color and religious practices cross oceans, span continents and land at our doorsteps. And since we have the right to bear arms, we also have the right to shoot them – at each other.

    Policemen who are sworn to protect us become caught up in a kind of madness that makes them so suspicious and fearful of  people of color that even routine traffic violations can turn into scenes of degradation and death.  Lives are changed forever – death is permanent – there is no taking back the gunfire that kills an innocent man or woman: no do-overs. And it’s not just that one life taken. The ripple effect in the lives of families and friends is also endless.

    Take Back the Night? Hardly bold enough. Give Back the Light, I say. Give back the light of acceptance of citizens regardless of race or who they love or where they worship, but without apathy toward those who struggle with less. Acceptance without apathy – do we have leaders capable of recognizing the reality of the feelings of Powerlessness that drive men to fire gunshots against the Powerful…I wonder. And can the Powerful be changed to look beyond the obvious to the pain below the surface…I wonder.

    Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God, Jesus said in his sermon on the mount. I am looking for the peacemakers, I am waiting for the peacemakers, I am hoping that they find their way to Dallas, Texas, tonight.

    *********************

    Ten years later, I continue to wait for the peacemakers. I am one small voice in the wilderness of cyberspace, but I refuse to wave a white flag of surrender while I wait with hope for international peace.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Exploring Crape Myrtles: Nature’s Art in My Neighborhood

    Exploring Crape Myrtles: Nature’s Art in My Neighborhood


    I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a crape myrtle tree.

    the colors are breathtaking

    I saw these crape myrtles on my walk in the neighborhood today

    the bright pink are my favorites

    STOP to take a picture

    almost home – I envy my neighbor’s crape myrtle trees

    But then, I saw another picture at the top of my driveway…

    I wish you would get out of that chair

    Behold, the two cats that look for safe spaces to beat the summer heat – they are unimpressed with the lovely crape myrtles that thrive in the summers. Food and water, please. And the occasional kind words if you don’t mind.

    And we don’t.

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    Stay cool, and please stay tuned.

  • The Supreme Court’s Decline: A Call to Action

    The Supreme Court’s Decline: A Call to Action


    The downfall of the Supreme Court since I published the following piece on June 25, 2022, has been swift, surgical, and stunning. Today the decisions made by that group of nine justices further fostered the attacks on the rights of the people our Constitution aimed to protect. I’m struggling to celebrate our 250th. birthday next week in the midst of Nero’s fiddling while Rome burned.

    “People Vs Supreme Court (The Sonnet)

    When the Supreme Court behaves prehistoric,
    Every human must become an activist.
    When the gatekeepers of law behave barbarian,
    Every civilian must come down to the street.
    When people are stripped of their basic rights,
    By some bigoted and shortsighted gargoyles.
    We the people must take back the reins,
    And put the politicians in their rightful place.
    We need no guns and grenades, we need no ammo,
    Unarmed and unbent we stand against savagery.
    Till every woman obtains their right to choice,
    None of us will sit quiet in compliant apathy.
    Every time the cradle of justice becomes criminal,
    It falls upon us civilians to be justice incorruptible.”


    ― Abhijit Naskar, 

    Find A Cause Outside Yourself: Sermon of Sustainability

    *****************

    “Let the word go forth to friend and foe alike, that a torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans…” John F. Kennedy inaugural address on January 20, 1961, as the 35th. President of the United States.

    Clearly, my generation wasn’t what President Kennedy hoped we would be. Can I pass the torch to the next generations with new opportunities to pursue life, liberty, and happiness with equal justice for all? Thank you.

    Onward.

  • summertime and the living is, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally

    summertime and the living is, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally


    Originally published in 2020 – we still enjoy the screened porch, but now have two granddaughters who will share the summer solstice with us this year. I’m sure they will roll their eyes and say I’m boring them when I begin to explain the significance of June 21st. tomorrow. The summer solstice will hopefully take a back seat to their celebration of their daddy for Father’s Day, but just in case…

    I asked Pretty to join me on our screened porch last night a little after 9 o’clock. Pretty who had had a stressful day putting out fires she didn’t start, didn’t hesitate. Ok, she said as she began to move outside with me. That’s one of Pretty’s best characteristics – she’s never afraid to switch gears – she’s always willing to humor me when I make a gear switch.  I guess that’s really two exceptional qualities, but who’s counting.

    Today is the summer solstice, I reminded Pretty, it’s the longest daylight of the year. I wanted to enjoy it with you, I said. Look, it’s almost 9:15 and just now getting darker.

    Pretty exclaimed with enthusiasm – oh you’re right. I’m so glad you suggested the porch.

    ***********************

    You can blame this on the frogs

    While Pretty and I talked on our porch last night, I tried to explain to her what was going through my head on this first day of my 74th. summer. The sounds from our porch were connected to the sounds of my earliest memories of summer when I slept in a small double bed with my maternal grandmother while a cheap oscillating fan turned slowly from side to side as it valiantly tried to cool us in the hot humidity of an East Texas heat a thousand miles away from South Carolina, a heat that would not be relieved by opening every window on the porch where we slept or the random whisper of cool air from a small oscillating fan made by Westinghouse. The sheets were always clean but never actually cool.

    I never trusted the sheets anyway after discovering a scorpion hiding between them one night.

    But it was the sound of the frogs around our pool here on Cardinal Drive – particularly after a rain – that drew me to those hot muggy nights of Grimes County, Texas, where I was raised. My grandmother’s wooden house made from a retail catalog blueprint had many design flaws, but its one awesome feature which had nothing to do with the design really, was the magical pond (or tank, as we called it in East Texas) behind her house.

    The tank was the focal point of my only-child imagination play stories during the day, but it was the tank’s music of those summer nights I hope will never be erased from my memory. Specifically, it was the frogs, or bull frogs as my grandmother used to call them  just before we drifted off to sleep. The low guttural sounds were always behind the house and were somewhat subdued until every light was turned off at night. But then, those frogs got louder and louder until they hit a mighty crescendo. My grandmother and I laughed out loud when we heard them.

    The frogs who live in our backyard on Cardinal Drive are rarely as raucous as the bull frogs in my tank in Richards – I think they are smaller frogs. But occasionally I hear one of those loud guttural sounds looking for something, probably safer water supplies, and I am transported to different days. To a grandmother who guided me with her wisdom – now to a woman who loves sharing another summer solstice with me.

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    I was blessed with a loving eccentric family who in the end gave me what they could – so much more than I realized. Today I stand with the Poor People’s Campaign and their national Call for a real Moral Revival to discover a soul within ourselves that will move all people to address the intersection of poverty, systemic racism, social injustices.

    One of the co-founders of the movement, Reverend William J. Barber II says, “In the long arc of human history, there are moments when the universe itself groans and declares, ‘It’s time.’”

    It is, indeed, time. It’s also summertime and contrary to the Gershwin hit song from Porgy and Bess, the living is definitely not easy for most of our fellow citizens who continue to demonstrate in our streets or elsewhere. Keep the faith. We must do better.

    Onward.

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    The Obamas were pitch perfect as always in their ceremonial addresses opening the Presidential Library/ Campus in Chicago this third week of June, 2026. They still give me hope. I need a large dose of that this summer when the living continues to be, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally in these United States.

     

  • Mama Mia, the movie, and the music of ABBA connect generations of families – everybody dance now!

    Mama Mia, the movie, and the music of ABBA connect generations of families – everybody dance now!


    I introduced our granddaughters to the glorious music of ABBA when they were barely able to process sound. They both recognize the intro to several of the famous ABBA hits now and know it’s time to dance with Nana and Naynay when Alexa cranks up the volume to Dancing Queen. When they came to stay with us last weekend, I thought it was time for them to have the full ABBA experience with the movie version of Mama Mia – you know, the 2008 version when everybody in the picture could sing except Pierce Brosnan. Love him, but singing? Not so much.

    Ella and Molly wanted to watch Enchanted, but I asked them to try Mama Mia for me because I knew they would love it. If they weren’t “enchanted” with it, we’d watch their favorite.

    Four-year-old Molly immediately went to play with her ice cream cart and babies.

    Six-year-old Ella was giving the movie the benefit of the doubt but refused to sit down to watch. She said she’d rather stand. Ok. I got that.

    “Naynay, is this age appropriate?” she asked me.

    “Of course, it’s age appropriate,” I said. “Would I ever ask you to watch something that’s not age appropriate. And, more importantly, who talks to a six-year-old about age appropriate?”

    She continued to stand as the first scenes opened with a young teenage girl talking with her two friends about trying to discover who her father was from among three guys who’d had sex with her mother back in the day. I had forgotten about that little hiccup.

    “Naynay, this movie is not age appropriate,” Ella said and looked at me with disappointment. I felt foolish and guilty at my inability to provide proper censorship – to be fair, I had focused on the music and not the storyline.

    “Let’s all watch Enchanted,” I said. Ella sat down in Nana’s lap. Molly brought her baby to watch with Nana and Ella on the sofa.

    *************************

    Two years ago I published this piece on June 17th. It’s age appropriate.

    Dancing Queen? Just kidding. Anyone who has seen me on a dance floor from the time my mother tried to teach me how to rock n roll with Dick Clark and American Bandstand after school in the living room of our home in Richards, Texas, to dancing with Pretty and our granddaughters in their kitchen to Roe, Roe, Roe, your Vote – anyone who has seen me try to dance will say gosh, Sheila can still carry a tune plus she’s got rhythm but Lordy, that old woman can’t dance.

    I may not be a Dancing Queen, but ABBA will always be my favorite musical group, my go-to songs when I think I can dance.

    Last week I watched the movie Mama Mia with Meryl Streep and a bunch of other people I know and like because it’s on my list of all time favorite movies and because I had a round of the epizooti. It was so good I watched it twice and then moved on to The Devil Wears Prada. I only watched it once, though, you’ll be pleased to know.

    Since I was in a prone position with no urges to dance, I listened to the words of a beautiful, slower tempo song from Mama Mia that Meryl sang in a poignant scene with her daughter. Beyond the obvious feelings I have now with my granddaughters, I can also connect the words to my relationship with Pretty. Life is often slipping through our fingers all the time.

    “Slipping Through My Fingers”

    Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
    Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
    I watch her go with a surge of that well known sadness
    And I have to sit down for a while
    The feeling that I’m losing her forever
    And without really entering her world
    I’m glad whenever I can share her laughter
    That funny little girl

    Slipping through my fingers all the time
    I try to capture every minute
    The feeling in it
    Slipping through my fingers all the time
    Do I really see what’s in her mind
    Each time I think I’m close to knowing
    She keeps on growing
    Slipping through my fingers all the time

    Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
    Barely awake I let precious time go by
    Then when she’s gone, there’s that odd melancholy feeling
    And a sense of guilt I can’t deny
    What happened to the wonderful adventures
    The places I had planned for us to go
    Well, some of that we did, but most we didn’t
    And why, I just don’t know

    Slipping through my fingers all the time
    I try to capture every minute
    The feeling in it
    Slipping through my fingers all the time
    Do I really see what’s in her mind
    Each time I think I’m close to knowing
    She keeps on growing
    Slipping through my fingers all the time

    Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
    And save it from the funny tricks of time

    Slipping through my fingers…

    *************************

    Think about life slipping through our fingers all the time. Do we wish we could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time. Gosh, I know I do.

    Stay tuned.