The Cat Formerly Known as Phil

I was set to write about the cows cavorting around town and Rick Davis’s kind and hilarious letter to the editor advising me to be cow suit free for a while, but life took a couple crazy turnsthis week. While some think my cow suit shenanigans make me crazy, believe me. I’ve reached a different and new level of lunacy.

It started the week before Christmas. After getting home from a full day’s work and a two hour meeting, I finally had on my flannel ninja turtle jammies and was nestled in for a “Modern Family” rerun. My girlfriend texted. A cat was meowing outside her window, and her kids convinced her to let him in.

Since it’s now acceptable to wear pajama pants in public (and she’s six blocks away), I went overwhen my show finished. Her teenage daughter held a black cat soaking up ear scratches. He wasoblivious to the two bouncing brothers, the black lab and the hissing tuxedo cat.

She combated the kids choir of “Can we keep him? Can we keep him!” explaining that he wasn’tfixed, and she didn’t have that kind of money the week before Christmas. He was sweet, soft, and plump which indicated he belonged to someone. Introducing an adult male to another adult male would lead to all sorts of territorial marking and more laundry re-do’s than she could handle with going to school full time and three kids.

The teen kept gleefully going through names. I flip-flopped between supporting my girlfriend’s rationale and offering possible names. With the earlier episode of Modern Family on my mind, I suggested the dad’s name, Phil. The teen squealed and held the cat eye-to-eye.

“Yes! Yes! You can live with us. We shall neuter you and name you Phil!”  

The night ended with my girlfriend saying “maybe, but let me try to find the owners tomorrow.” I went home to my own three dogs, two cats, two turtles and a partridge in a pear tree.

When morning came, the kids’ mom said they really could not take in a new cat. They let Phil outside and hoped he’d return to his home. That was Thursday.

On Saturday, I was meeting friends at the bagel shop to let them bestow birthday presents upon me when I saw that I missed a call from m’lady. She knew I had a lunch date and wouldn’t normally call, so I called her back. She answered crying.

“The cat. He’s dead. I went for a walk and he’s on 10th and Clark. What should I do? I can’t leave him here. What if the kids see him?”  Now that he was gone, she didn’t call him “Phil” anymore. He became “the cat” in a subconscious attempt at emotional distancing. I told her that I would take care of the cat.

After lunch I headed to his resting place and noticed her still walking. She got in my truck and we headed to the cat’s corner. I couldn’t tell his cause of death but could see a familiar white tuftof fur on his chest. I scooped up the cat and placed it in my truck.

We ran an errand so our eyelashes could dry because she didn’t want to tell the kids.

We looked forward to the distraction in our afternoon plans of Lava’s gingerbread house walk, asoak in the hot pools and Thai food. I realized throughout the afternoon how much I'd worried about the cat since meeting it three days before. I didn’t have to worry anymore.

My metaphor when I get overwhelmed is to remind myself that I can't save all the kittens. I just can't. Both literally and metaphorically. I can’t do everything and realizing that allows me to accomplish the things I can. Still. I just couldn’t shake the thoughts of the cat formerly known as Phil. Could I have taken him in?

We had a terrific afternoon and after I dropped everyone off, I got a text just as I got home. “The kids are yelling Phil” What? Then who was that other cat? I have no idea.

We learned from new neighbors that old neighbors moved and left Phil behind. With all of the“what could have been’s” the few hours before, my sanity didn’t stand a chance. Because of the cat formerly known as Phil, the real Phil is getting a second chance and a fresh start much like we all get as an old year ends and a new one begins.

The cow suits are nothing compared to this. I’m heading into 2015 with three cats! Complementing my cow suits are cats Phoebe, Franklin, and Phil. What a fine finale for 2014 and perfect prelude to a crazy New Year.

Christmas in Color

Ah, December 21. It’s the winter solstice, four days before Christmas, and my birthday! My Decembers hold a variety of holiday traditions and birthday celebrations, but this year I added something new: School District 25’s Festival of Trees. I made five trips to the Stephens Performing Arts Center this year in conjunction with the Festival. Three were to set up and help decorate a tree and two were to attend and enjoy the event.

The tree I helped (wrestled) with was donated by two recently formed student-named clubs at Poky and Highland: the PHS Triangle Alliance and Highland’s SAGE (Straights And Gays for Equality.) The Triangle Alliance draws its name from the pink triangle which originated in Nazi concentration camps used to identify gay men, but transformed into a gay rights symbol in the 1970s. The triangle also nicely represents the three missions of a gay straight alliance (GSA) which are advocacy, support, and camaraderie.   

Each school’s club is coming into its own and can expect to shift focus among these three purposes depending on the directions students take them. I have had conversations with the administration at Century High School, and they are more than willing to support a GSA if there are students willing to start and maintain one.

Some students join a GSA to influence their school’s or community’s climate with regard to LGBT people. Some students seek support, and others’ interests lie in the social aspect of hanging out in an explicitly welcoming, respectful and empowering space. Shouldn’t that describe every school club or extracurricular activity? I actually think it describes many clubs already in existence.

Both clubs have teacher advisors on campus and have been active since the beginning of the school year. I’ve been working with both advisors to oversee and coordinate weekly meetings, and during November we designed and decorated a tree for the Festival of Trees.

Businesses, families, schools and clubs donate trees for auction each year with themes central to their group or centered on the season. I asked students if they wanted to go “loud and proud” with pride flags and LGBT symbols or if they wanted a traditional holiday theme. It was up to them, but I held my breath while they discussed and researched ideas.  

I’m all about advocacy of equality, but for our first foray into a community event, I hoped we could be subtle. I constantly navigate how much direction and guidance to offer because it’s important for students to lead, but there are times when an edict is appropriate. I wasn’t going to dictate this decision, but I really wanted them to make the decision I’d make.

I lucked out. They found a lovely subtle rainbow design online that spiraled up and around the tree. Perfect. They called it “Christmas in Color.”

To fund the tree, the Poky advisor, on behalf of both clubs, applied for and won a sponsorship grant through the Seattle-based Pride Foundation. From their website at www.pridefoundation.org, they inspire giving to expand opportunities and advance full equality for LGBT people. They invest in organizations, students, and leaders in Alaska, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, and Washington—transforming individual acts of courage into a unified movement for change.

I know it’s taken courage for kids some kids—gay, straight, or questioning—to show up and see what these clubs are about. I know it takes courage to talk with parents or peers about joining, but decorating a Christmas tree isn’t exactly an act of courage. Or is it? As soon as a Poky art teacher offered some design ideas and glitter, I had second thoughts. Confronting infamously unpredictable strands of Christmas lights requires courage and composure. Add glitter-coated hearts and origami ornaments to the mix, and I was grateful for all the support the Pride Foundation could give.

The clubs met weekly at spaces offered by Trinity Episcopal Church and the United Church of Christ near Poky High. The open doors of both churches have not only allowed us a place for dinners and gatherings, but it’s sending the message that there are many people, churches and other organizations here more than willing to accept and assist us just the way we are. Kids can’t hear this enough. When I work with glitter, I can’t hear this enough.

I’m grateful that the school district has been supportive of the students who’ve wanted to start these clubs and the adults who want to help. It's important for all kids—not just LGBT ones—to know that they are truly a part of something. And during these past weeks, the members of the PHS Triangle Alliance and Highland SAGE were part of a “Christmas in Color.”

The finished tree with bits of glittery wonder. 

A gift from the Poky principal after she corralled the art teacher into helping her.
Glitter. Is. Everywhere!
Peace be with me this season.

We Got a Physics Major!

One of the geekiest photos of me appears in the 1987 Hawthorne Junior High year book. I remember lining up in the gym for the MATHCOUNTS team picture with two other girls and a lone boy. I loved math so much that I was thrilled to be front and center, and I almost edged them right out of the club shot. I look like a dim-witted offensive lineman rather than a brainy mathlete.

The MATHCOUNTS club I once belonged to has evolved over its 30 years to become the MATHCOUNTS Foundation. From www.mathcounts.org, it “strives to engage middle school students of all ability and interest levels in fun, challenging math programs, in order to expand their academic and professional opportunities.”  Schools throughout southeast Idaho have participated in the program since its inception.

Fourteen years ago, a local engineer who was the Southeast Idaho Regional MATHCOUNTS Coordinator visited the Pocatello Community Charter School (PCCS) to tell them about the club. At the time, the school was in its second year and a good friend was the principal. After meeting with him, she called me to talk about the “nicest, geekiest engineer” who came by to encourage the school to start a math club. I wasn’t sure if she was holding the word “geek” in quite the same high regard I do, but I listened.

The principal bemoaned her own middle school math struggles, and proceeded to poke fun at what kids might do in a math club. She noticed my stream of silence, and after her foot was firmly lodged between her gums, she stopped mid-sentence.

“You were in this club, weren’t you?” Her tone shifted from slight mockery to fearful remorse, and then without hesitation, hope. “Hey, do you want to coach our math club?” Seems like everyone likes to make fun of the math geeks right up until you need help with your computer, your kid’s homework or your school’s math club.

I coached the MATHCOUNTS team at PCCS for 12 years, and I’ve kept in touch with a number of my mathletes through Facebook or their parents. (I have a strict personal policy of no Facebook friends under 18, so it’s usually during their senior year or after they’ve begun college when mathletes connect with me on social media.) I’ve loved hearing stories of kids attending MIT, majoring in mechanical engineering, and becoming math teachers.

On Thanksgiving Day a couple weeks ago, I received the following message via Facebook from a former mathlete:

I just wanted to let you know that I'm still so thankful for MATHCOUNTS and grateful to you for everything you did to keep me from burning out on math in middle school. I'm getting close to declaring a major in physics and I'm not sure if I would love math enough to want to do it for the rest of my life without the great experience I had in MATHCOUNTS. Hope you're having a great thanksgiving!

Holy Cow! I was so touched by her words, but I immediately felt guilty that I might be the only recipient of her note. What’s a holiday without a healthy helping of gratitude and a side of guilt?

I had the best of all worlds as a MATHCOUNTS coach. I worked as an engineer and got to spend one or two evenings a week with kids. I got to deal with dedicated students who were easily excited about math like I was, and they wanted to be there. I didn’t have to deal with bossy parents because I was a volunteer, and many of them were just grateful that someone else wanted to talk puzzles and permutations with their teen.

This young woman had wonderful math and science teachers throughout her tenure as a student in Pocatello. I got the chance to be the fun influence without any other obligations concerning her education. Her parents made sure she got to participate in the math and engineering activities she wanted to, and many engineers and other STEM professionals have worked behind the scenes for years to ensure that the MATHCOUNTS program is available for students throughout Idaho.  I want to share these words with all who have worked to ignite an excitement for STEM in students and add, Wahoo! We got a physics major!

Our passion is appreciated and it’s paying off.

This year’s Southeast Idaho Regional MATHCOUNTS competition will be on February 7^th at Idaho State University, and 11 teams are currently registered. Any middle schools interested in entering a team or individuals may contact Krystal Chanda at Chanda@ae.eng.com or 233-4226. Home school students are also welcome and encouraged to participate.

Barely a veteran

This has been a week of recognizing and honoring our veterans. My dad was a veteran. Barely.  At 19 years old, he enlisted in the army in July of 1948. About a year and a half later he received a medical discharge in March of 1950, just months before the Korean War. He never saw combat, and he never talked to me about his time in the service.  Add this to the list of things I wish I could have learned about him before he died. And while I’m wishing, I wish I could recount this with a more multi-faceted perspective then that of his pre-teen tomboy.

My mom told me Dad always felt terribly guilty about his service, or rather, lack of service. The story I recall is that he was released from the Army after being injured in an alcohol-related car accident. His dismissal date is 15 days after his 21^st birthday, so I imagine he’d been out celebrating. I can’t substantiate that, but it makes a good—as in tragic—story. Drunk driving wasn’t illegal at the time, but he still held a gratitude-laced guilt.  He undoubtedly knew a lot of guys who fought and lost their lives and minds in the Korean War while he got to move on with a mangled knee and a medical discharge after that car wreck. He got to marry a couple of different women, have a few (terrific) kids, and chase the American dream of running his own business in Smalltown, America.

I can still remember his disfigured knee and wrapping ritual. Most of his leg was bumpy and discolored and he bound it with a dingy ace bandage. He’d light up a cigarette and either with it resting on his lips or in his bedside ashtray, he would weave his wrap through plumes of smoke every single day. His bedside table overflowed with fanged metal bandage clips and cigarette butts.

I can’t recall if he had a limp or not, but I know he hurt. He lauded the healing hot pools in Lava and tried to soak every morning before opening the Lava Lounge after noon.

Dad drank and smoked with nary a consideration of health insurance. His military guilt was exacerbated after he was diagnosed with lung cancer. Those 20 months in the Army qualified him for care from the Veterans Administration, and the VA hospital in Salt Lake City accepted him with open arms.

The Band-aid and bland gravy smells of the VA cemented my memories of my weekly visits to see him. Other weathered old men walked the halls with their IV’s wearing paltry hospital gowns, slippers and prestigious black caps with pins and patches. I’d see some gathered in meeting areas and could hear snippets of war stories. Dad never socialized. His months in the hospital were quiet and lonely and a complete contrast to the life of the charismatic and charming bar owner who knew everyone in town.

His care was top-notch over the course of a lung removal and emphysema treatment. In addition to his short stint in the service, my dad resented paying taxes, and was often in the sights of the IRS. He had a list of things that would make one question whether or not he deserved to receive the quality care and compassion he did while at the VA. He spent a lot of time in silence over his last months and while I wonder if he was in deep reflection, he might have just been wishing he was fishing.

I have no idea what Dad’s motives were in joining the Army. I doubt it was inspired by a deep patriotism, but it could have been. He may have enlisted for an education or a thrill. He may have been bored. He may have been avoiding an ex-girlfriend who’d just had his son, but whatever the reason was, he did enlist. He did sign up to serve, and there might just be some shred of honor or distinction somewhere surrounding his time in the US Army. I will never know.

During this week I’ve seen local businesses from restaurants to dry cleaners to furniture stores say “thank you” to veterans through sales and discounts. I’ve seen articles about what we can do to better serve the men and women who’ve served us, and I’ve read numerous accounts of military personnel that make me so grateful for the sacrifices and service of so many. As we remember veterans this week, I remember my dad, and while he we was barely a veteran, he was a veteran nonetheless.

CAKE Deliver

When I was a college student, scanning the aisles of the Party Palace on Garrett Way with other members of the Idaho State Volleyball team, I never considered that choosing the silly cow suit would come into play like it did last week.

My friends were beautiful and fit and wanted to dress up like 1920’s flappers.  Flappers were known for short skirts, excessive makeup, and sporting cigarettes and heels.  While contemplating my discomfort showing that much skin and masquerading in such makeup, the packaged cow suit appeared before my eyes like a gift from heaven.

I wore it for Halloweens. I surprised friends with a cow-suited rendition of “Happy Birthday” on my trombone. I got another suit in ’97 to help raise money for an American Lung Association bike ride with my team called Cows Against Lung Failure (CALF), and the Cows for a Cure were born when we formed a team for the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life in 2005. Five years ago when our 15 year old team member Ryleigh Thomason died of leukemia, we became Ryleigh’s Herd.

I tell people about Ryleigh whenever anyone asks me about the cow costume or whenever I suit up for speaking engagements. I got to tell a bunch of fifth graders about Ryleigh a couple weeks ago.

Last July, I called the school district 25 office and had a terrific discussion with their spokesperson Shelley Allen about school culture, bullying, and character building. Our conversation dipped into funding challenges and schools’ abilities to provide counseling and mentoring services. We could have talked until the cows come home about the roles of parents and schools in the character development of students.

A few weeks later, Ms. Allen told me about District 25’s new CAKE award to recognize outstanding Character and Attitude and showing Kindness and Encouragement to others. She asked if I would be willing to present the award and deliver cupcakes to the student and their class in a cow suit. Me? In a cow suit? I’d love to!

I’m a cow who’s as human as the next guy and my character and attitude can fluctuate with the weather, but by golly, I try to be one of the good humans. Summoning kindness and encouragement at times when they are void can feel impossible, but it IS possible, and I sincerely believe it’s important to convey that to kids of all ages. My young friend Ryleigh would have been a prime candidate for the CAKE award before and during her fight with cancer.

I enjoyed meeting the first CAKE recipient, Jefferson Elementary’s Isabelle Kirkman, and I look forward to recognizing the rest of this year’s CAKE kids. With each class, I hope to celebrate, share a bit about Ryleigh and discus how a little kindness—apparently like a silly cow suit—can go a long way.

A Coming Out Weekend for Mormons and Gays

First published in the Idaho State Journal online forum on October 9, 2014.

With the week we’ve had, I suppose I should be discussing the 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals lifting the ban on same sex marriage in Idaho and the lightening quick response of Governor Otter. It goes without saying—but I’m going to say it—I can’t wait for marriage equality to swaddle the state and provide the safety and security that a marriage does. I’m nervous, though, that when the ban crumbles, my girlfriend will start drumming her fingers and glaring over her glasses with, “Well?”

Don’t wait for me, Idaho. I’m not ready for marriage, but so many others are. Let us have the tax benefits, powers of attorney and recognition of our own unique families. And cake. For goodness sake, bring on the wedding cakes!

I’m not delving into a marriage piece this week because the coincidence of the October 10 “Meet the Mormons” release and the October 11 National Coming Out Day (NCOD) is too remarkable to ignore. I’m a mild conspiracy theorist, so I wonder if this is a coincidence.

NCOD was founded in 1988 on the one year anniversary of the National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights. The effort merged with the Human Rights Campaign in 1990, and I’ve watched its evolution from scant articles in the occasional gay magazine during my 20s to today where it’s splashed all over social media.

Speaking of social media, between the Mormons movie and NCOD, my weekly newsfeed provided a sweet and ironic blend of my Mormon friends who can’t wait for their stories to be shared and LGBT folks feeling the same. The collective “Here we are! Let’s celebrate us!” was astounding.

It would appear from my Mormon friends’ recent profile pictures and declarations that there’s been an effort associated the latest conference to come out and declare “I am a Mormon.”  I imagine that the encouragement was along the same lines as the words on the Human Rights Campaign website advocating LGBT people come out.  

“When people know someone who is LGBTQ, they are far more likely to support equality under the law. Beyond that, our stories can be powerful to each other. Every person who speaks up changes more hearts and minds, and creates new advocates for equality.”  Be a good example and proud of who you are, and acceptance will follow. Simple.

Critics of “Meet the Mormons” cite the lack of the church’s history of racism and sexism and call it a “90 Minute Commercial for Mormonism.”  I’m sure. When I broach the topic of me and my pursuit for equality, I lead with my own “Meet the Mormons” style of sharing life, love and core beliefs. Despite the heartwarming accounts in the movie or my personal portrayals, the LDS church and I are no different in possessing some good, bad and ugly.  You’ll see what you look for and it’s all there.

I feel the same about NCOD. It’s got good, bad and ugly. Living in a closet with any kind of secret is hard on the heart, and thinking “strength in numbers”, the movement is a great idea. Coming out is initiating a conversation or a series of difficult ones ,and after the courage to come out with anything, an entirely different set of tools is needed  to know how and when to keep the conversation going or let it go.

If someone is pushed or jumps out before they are ready, the effects can be devastating. Look at the Mormons. Before going on missions, they are trained and prepared to face any number of challenges one might when talking about their faith. They are armed with the knowledge and talking points of their teachings and encouraged to find courage.

I am stunned when those in the LGBT community attempt to push others out of the closet, promote coming out without adequate support, or express many opinions at all about someone else’s choice in the matter. Both youth and adults may be in situations where doing so isn’t safe emotionally, spiritually or physically. The path to coming out is personal and private. I’ve walked a mile in my own gay shoes and not anyone else’s.

My favorite image from the week was a Human Rights Campaign ad for NCOD featuring Tyler Glenn of the pop group Neon Trees: “I am a happy and healthy Mormon gay pop star. I don’t know what it all means, but I’m ok with it.”  I’m ok with it, too, Tyler, and wow. You’ve done a lot of coming out.

We’ve all got closets to break through and conversations to have. Embracing a little empathy makes that easier for everyone. And in my experience, so does cake.  Empathy and cake make my world go ‘round.

Mockingbird Season

Some words were adapted from a couple of my previous blogs entitled Mockingbird, Moments, and Moo and Cows Take Vermont. Set to appear in the Idaho State Journal on October 7.

Many Gate City sophomores are embarking on “To Kill A Mockingbird” this week. Ahh, memories.  Harper Lee’s novel is the only book I’ve read more than once.

I read it the first time just weeks into my own sophomore classes at this exact time of year. The story begins in the summer but quickly transitions to fall. Impressions from the novel set in the season during which I read will always be woven among the changing leaves, crisping air and marching bands of autumn. This is mockingbird season.

As I took in the leaves of the City Creek Trail this week, I pondered the rose-colored canopies, the same shade as my glasses. Harper Lee permanently painted my lens when she introduced me to the Finch family. I read about Atticus, Jem and my kindred spirit, Scout, confronting life’s cruel realities with optimism and hope at an age when both can be hard to grasp.

It’s a story of a young tomboy, Scout Finch, her older brother Jem and her widowed father Atticus, a white lawyer in the South. It imparts themes of racial tension and injustice, coming of age, challenging gender expectations, and wrestling judgment born from fear. The book touts integrity, grit, simplicity and adventure.

A poignant theme in the book is developed when Jem sits with Mrs. Dubose. There are a dozen spins here, but at the root is that Jem and Scout had no idea of Mrs. Dubose's demons associated with her morphine addiction. They didn’t realize how their company helped her to heal and slay those demons.

I’ve had many encounters with Jems.  My friends, strangers and kids I work with unwittingly distract or encourage me just by being.  I have no addictions, and "demons" is overly dramatic, but the exuberance and kindness of others repeatedly means more than they could imagine.  

Some of my favorite words from Atticus to Scout were, "you never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view—until you climb around in his skin and walk around in it."

This is not a new adage, but I could stand to hear it often and apply it more. After Atticus took the case of a wrongly accused black man, his advice to his kids and his actions in his community made me think that everyone can have an inner Atticus Finch. Everyone can develop that kind of wisdom and character. His courage and compassion can be ours. His compass can be ours.  Everyone can speak up and defend and befriend without judgment. Everyone has the capacity for caring that Atticus Finch did, right?

In the fall of tenth grade, I began to hope so.  In this mockingbird season, I still hope so. 

My tattoo features the mockingbird from
the cover of the book I read years ago.
I mustered some killer courage this week.

And now I know I need to do this.
That's going to take just as much courage. 
And time. Maybe more time than courage. 

But first...this!

I've been considering that I need to expand on the cryptic here, but it really isn't appropriate. This week, I confronted a group of people representing an organization I so desperately want to support, but I can't. I used to support them, but today, I flat out don't because I have such deep concerns and disagreements with their operations, leadership and inability to collaborate. And I told them that. Finally. I've needed to tell them for months, but I didn't have the guts and I've felt it won't be heard. It definitely wouldn't have been heard if I didn't say it.

I've never been in a situation like I was this week and I don't want to put myself in a situation like that again. But now I know I can if I need to.

In writing this week's column, it's occurred to me that the changing season and time of year was a catalyst. Courage is in the air. [inhale. repeat.]

Band and the Power of the Suffix

So, last week on Facebook, a friend asked for recommendations on musical instruments for her 11 year old son to try. Since she asked my opinion, the trombone!

Hawthorne Junior High Marching Band

I played the trombone and loved it. My mother made, and I mean “made” me  because she played the trombone as a kid. My first high school t-shirt said, “Loud, Proud Poky Pep Band Member.”

There are many reasons the trombone is the instrument to play. You don’t have to worry about breaking and supplying reeds like the woodwinds to.  During marching band season when practices are in the early freezing cold, you can wear mittens and still play.  Trombones get to be loud in the pep band and often have fun solos. During football games, you can play the sliding crescendo with the kickoff’s rise and decent and the whole arena can hear you.  You can “accidentally” empty your spit valve on the saxophones if they are getting a little irritating or too-cool-for-school. 

When I was in band, I was the only girl who played a low brass instrument until my friend Nicole joined with the baritone. Apparently when my mom was young, there was a lot of drama among the predominantly female flutes and clarinets and she wanted to spare me that. My experience being the lone female among the trombones set up my social comfort nicely for the predominantly male settings of engineering.

My friend’s son is only allowed to begin with the trumpet, clarinet or saxophone. I get it. Fine. It is a rather large instrument, so I suggested he start with the trumpet. The trumpets and trombones are bound by brass. Transitioning to the trombone after the trumpet is pretty straightforward.

So note. He can begin as a clarinetist, saxophonist or trumpeter. The suffixes become especially important as a young band member when you get to the trombone. I was a trombonist, but in my excitement during seventh grade PE when telling my peers I was in the band, I mixed up my suffixes.

If you don’t talk to your kids about suffixes, someone else will. 

My peers talked to me to the point of terrible teasing that didn’t fade for what seemed like forever. When I told my mom about it, she encouraged me to laugh with them and play louder. So, I did.

When I got to high school, there was more teasing along these suffixed lines from my upper class volleyball teammates but a swift blast from my horn pointed right at them quelled it quickly. Words and suffixes are powerful, but they were no match for the trombone and any loud, proud pep  band member.

Crushed

Published in the Idaho State Journal on September 12, 2014

Sometimes a coincidence will sneak up on you like a crush. Other times a coincidence can simply crush you.

This past week, I had a checkup for my allergies and asthma. I was diagnosed with both before Kindergarten and I used to keep tabs on my inhaler like my present day smart phone.  Lifelong, I’ve only had two asthma-induced ER visits. For the most part, mine is a mild case of asthma. Now I keep track of my phone better than my inhaler.

As I was scurrying to make my 8am appointment, I reached for my perfume. Or cologne. Heck. It’s supposed to be a gender-neutral scent, so I don’t know what it’s called. Whatever. This is so beside the point. As I reached for my foo-foo fragrance, I stopped. I recalled the many of the faceless patients in the office waiting rooms of appointments past. I didn’t want to further aggravate pulmonary conditions of anyone who might be on oxygen or in respiratory distress. I also didn’t want a lecture from the doctor about perfumes and allergies, but mostly it was worrying about others that led to my day of mere shower freshness.

As I completed my morning hair-spiking and tooth brushing—I didn’t floss because I don’t see the dentist for at least three months— I thought of my friend Dottie and a column I wrote last October called “I can wear perfume to church again.”

 

In that piece, I talked about this quintessential sweet little old lady in the congregation who had just moved away to Arizona. Dottie had been on oxygen, and when I realized that she would have her big, green tank with her each week, I quit wearing perfume to church so I wouldn’t exacerbate her difficulty breathing. Upon her leaving, I just couldn’t bring myself to spray a spritz so soon after her departure.

Since that writing last October, I received a flowery card from Dottie and a friend request from her on Facebook.  Our most significant exchange over the last year occurred after I posted a picture of my labradoodle Bob in his custom-made cow suit. She messaged a plea to explain the cow suits and my Cow Suit Saturday blog. After I explained that it’s about embracing whimsy and recording people’s reactions, we talked about how darned handsome Bob is. Even in his ridiculous cow suit, my dog Bob is the bomb.

With Dottie on my mind, my asthma appointment was pleasantly uneventful. I had the usual breathing tests where I exhale with force until my lungs are empty and I see how far I can move the digital needle. I’m less competitive than I used to be with the process, but I was still curious about my performance. I mean results. I still wheeze. I still need an inhaler and I’m still not getting rid of Bob or any of my other animal allergens because I’m stubborn and I love them.

Before I left, I got a breathing treatment and was all set for my day. When I went home at lunch to let Bob and the others out to potty, my phone dinged with an alert.

Dottie passed away.

Whooosh. And my lungs were empty again. I had known that she wasn’t doing well, but what a coincidence. I was just thinking about her. I was crushed.

One Sunday before Dottie moved away she was kneeling in the communion line ahead of me. She was getting out of her kneel to return to her seat, when I noticed her start to stumble. I happened to be the one standing there to prevent her fall and offer a little support. We were fast friends after that.

I won’t be wearing perfume to church this weekend, but by golly, I’m going to wear my cow suit. (Not to church!) Dottie got a kick out of my cow suit escapades.

Pocatello’s last fun run of their series is this weekend. The cows, some friends and I in cow suits, will be on the route for a commemorative Cow Suit Saturday in Dottie’s memory. We will yell and cheer for the runners and walkers and offer a little support. With my asthma under control, I ought to be entering the run, but I’d much rather cheer.  Run fast, Friends and if you’re aiming for a personal best, crush it.

The Curve-wrecker

The first week of classes is over, and so are my quiet dog-walks around Holt Arena.  Welcome back, ISU students. I’m excited to report that I’m one of you again. I’m enrolled in a professional writing class.

I remember students like me. They were older, wiser, and didn’t play intramural games at 10pm. They read the assignments, looked forward to discussion and didn’t wear sweats, flip-flops and ball caps to class. They didn’t care about “Thirsty Thursday” at the Rum Runner bar, and they wrecked the grading curve. I imagined being the curve-wrecker, but the first class adjusted my expectations like a rear-end collision.

When I entered the room at the new Rendezvous Center, a few students were already seated. And, yes, I know that the center was built in 2007 and is not necessarily “new”, but anything at ISU that wasn’t there in 1996 is “new” to me.  I know good students are supposed to sit in front, so I dragged my dress shoes up there.

As kids, excuse me, students filed into the room, I wondered where the men were. With only one male student in the midst, I was clearly not in engineering school any more. And as I anticipated, I was the oldest. By a generation. Maybe two.

The professor started going over the syllabus and introducing words and phrases foreign to me. I considered the only thing that might make this first class more uncomfortable would be if I’d have shown up in a cow suit. I let my mind wander to that hilarity but my focus was yanked back to the present with the silence that follows a question on day one. I don’t have to answer as many questions if I sit in the front, right?

We went around the room introducing each other, and one by one, I realized that I’m the only student with a degree, let alone a Master’s. I am also the only one without an English or writing focus. I felt like the GPS led me astray and I was sitting on the wrong side of the tracks.

The entire meeting was a fascinating example of the emotion and dynamics that can surface when one is a minority or in a new setting.  I have two degrees for crying out loud and a house and a career and a turtle who loves me. I write a column. I’ve been a professional for almost two decades, but when surrounded by these young, self-identified writers and math-loathers, I stuttered. I hesitated. I stifled my voice and felt small and insecure. I felt a shred of what other students, young and old all over town, felt last week.

It’ll get better though, and we’ll find our grooves.  I suppose when my nerves settle I might just be the class curve-wrecker, but I doubt it. I look forward to the class discussions, though, and rooting for whoever the curve-wrecker proves to be.

An Evening At Villano's

Published in the Idaho State Journal on August 31, 2014

I’m on a diet. Sort of. I have visions of last fall’s jeans, but haven’t quite visualized how I’m going to get back into them. I spent an inordinate amount of money on fruits, vegetables, and protein powder this week, and followed it up with a trip to Wednesday Farmer’s Market.  I took my two six and nine year old buddies that I write about now and then. They were eager to join me and I suspect it’s because they hoped for puddles in the parking lot after the day’s rain.

I procured more vegetables through the drizzle, and the boys asked if we could go to the new Villano’s on Main Street for dinner. They love to say it, or sing it rather, with a long lingering “lan” that rolls right into the “o”. I hesitated. Diet. Jeans. Pizza. Aromas. “Sure, Boys. Let’s go to Villaaano’s.”  I’ll have a salad.

The little bistro is only two blocks from the Old Town Pavilion, so we walked. Their eyes were focused on puddles and my nose was focused on Villano’s.  I could smell the Italian sauces half way and began the internal bargaining. Surely, the boys will need me to eat their crusts. Maybe just one slice. Maybe my own small pizza. And, maybe Holt Arena is open late and I could sneak in and run stairs for an hour afterward. I ordered a small salad and stared inappropriately at everyone else’s plates. I did have to step in and finish the crusts, so my eyes were eventually diverted to our own table.

The boys’ mom was running before-school errands in peace while we dined, and she called just as we got home. She found some snazzy lunch boxes on sale. The choices were black, blue and purple. The eldest’s favorite color these days is purple. Their mom asked me if she should (A) get him the purple one, (B) tell him the choices and let him choose what would most likely be purple, or (C) get him black or blue in hopes to prevent any teasing because she fears purple might be perceived as a girl’s color.

What? Purple? A girl’s color? Since when? I’m usually up to date on gender norms because I’ve been inadvertently breaking them since I was these kids’ ages, but really? I had no idea about the potential for purple or teasing.  Nonetheless, I suggested (B).  Let him choose.

As I listed his color choices, his shout of “PURPLE!” echoed through the house and scared the dogs.

When their mom got home with the canvas lunchboxes, she might as well have been Santa himself. The purple lover grabbed his new carrier and squeezed it in glee. He then said to us both, “And ya know, people might tease me because it’s purple, but I like purple, and I will just tell them that you shouldn’t tease people for that because you can like whatever color you like.” Okay then.

This little guy is as (un)prepared as any kid for the upcoming school year and the social challenges that will come. If you’re reading this and you have kids going to school, perhaps you could talk to them about not teasing others for the color of their lunchboxes. Or their haircuts. Or their clothes. Or their church. Or their lack of one. Or for any reason at all really.

I was teased constantly as a kid for all of those and more.  I realized young that I was going to get taunted for just about anything, so I decided to freely embrace the things that brought me joy. My mom was so good at encouraging me, and I saw that same kind of encouragement in this lunchbox delivery. Not all kids are this lucky.

I wouldn’t think so much dialogue could ensue around a lunchbox, but we all talked another 10 minutes or so about social dynamics of the third grade, mold prevention, meal possibilities, and perks of this particular design. When I unzipped it and showed him the extra compartment, he squealed, “For leftovers! Like pizza from Villano’s!”

Poor kid. He’s excited and equipped to face his peers with his purple lunchbox but has no idea that as long as I’m on a “diet” there will be no leftovers after an evening at Villano’s. 

Tuesdays for Mrs. Johnson

When I missed a serve on game point, my volleyball coach yelled. When I missed a free throw, my basketball coach yelled. When my mom noticed my first tattoo at age 20, she yelled. Teachers didn’t yell at me often, but I remember when one did.

On a fall day 29 years ago, teammates and I were loitering in the halls of Hawthorne Junior High before volleyball practice. Someone learned that lockers could be opened by wiggling them just right. In our pre-practice boredom, we tried it on the group closest to the gym and next to Mrs. Johnson’s room.

I’d heard legends in the halls of Mrs. Johnson. She scared me. I avoided passing her between classes, and I cautiously looked at my schedule each semester fearing I’d be sentenced to her English class.

While we fiddled with lockers, we didn’t realize Mrs. Johnson was in her room. She heard our racket, surfaced like a snake and snarled, “what do you think you are doing?”

We weren't stealing. We were snooping and trying to beat the system. I didn’t think we were in the wrong, so I tried some sarcasm and humor with Mrs. Johnson—one of the dumber moves of my youth. She shook her finger and shouted a string of rhetorical questions as she slid toward me. I wanted my mommy.

When I began attending a new church a few years ago, I noticed Mrs. Johnson sitting toward the front. The sight of her slight build and gray hair still triggered terror in my gut. The fear of God paled in comparison to my teenage fear of Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson has got to be in her 80’s by now. I worry that although I’ve offered a few reminiscing comments at coffee hours, she really wouldn’t grasp how grateful I am for that confrontation years ago.She imparted that although what I was doing may not have been punishable by law, my time could be better spent. Those face to face seconds forced me to be accountable for my actions. It didn’t matter what others were doing. It mattered what I was doing.  She could have ignored us and kept on grading, but she didn’t. She paid attention. It took me longer than I’d like to admit that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t mean; I was wrong.

Today when she talks about her years teaching, Mrs. Johnson exudes a kindness and love of people that illustrate how deeply she loves the kids she taught, praised and scolded. Recently she told me that she looks forward to Tuesdays because both American Falls Mayor Marc Beitia and I are former Hawthorne students and she loves to see us all grown up and involved in our communities. No pressure here, Mayor, but Mrs. Johnson reads (and loves) your every word.

Tuesdays are about to get a little makeover for Mrs. Johnson as my friend Susie Matsuura is going to share this weekly space with me. Susie isn’t a former Hawthorne Hawk, but she is a lifelong Idahoan with a great sense of humor and humanity who is driven by kindness and her sense of right. Susie is a lot like Mrs. Johnson, and I look forward to reading what she writes.

Steve and the Magic Binki

If you listen closely, you can hear whines and groans throughout the nation as summer vacation draws to a close and the first day of school looms.  I’m writing this week from the Oregon Coast on an end of summer trip with a friend and her three kids. The long hours in the car called for the “binki.”

I learned about the binki on a camping trip years ago with 17 of my closest friends. The weekend rules were simple.  Chip in money for food. Take a turn cooking and cleaning up.  Have fun. No whining. If you whined, you had to wear a pacifier on a string until you caught someone else whining. 

Remembering the magic of that binki, I procured one for our Oregon trip. The 14 year old girl made it the entire first day including nine and a half hours in the car without a single whine. She has two wriggly, squirrelly, and gross (cute) little brothers and not a whiney peep. The binki is magic.

The binki comes with rules. No poking or taunting anyone to rid yourself of the binki. You may state that you are cold or hungry or that a sibling is bothering you, but if your tone is questionable, the group will vote. The driver (me) may whine or curse freely from behind the wheel due to the insensitivity or ignorance of other drivers.  You do not have to wear it while swimming or sleeping, but if you end the day with it, you begin the next with it. If you refuse to wear the binki or throw a tantrum when caught whining, you lose access to all electronic devices for the remainder of the day.

I told the kids a story about Officer Steve Williams. Steve was a Pocatello police officer and champion body builder when he was tragically killed in a boating accident nine years ago. During one of his turns with the binki on that camping trip, a county sheriff visited our campsite. Steve was the first to rise from afternoon campfire circle and approach the vehicle. His denim shorts, tight tank top and chiseled muscles accentuated his swagger that surfaced with the appearance of a fellow officer.  Steve forgot he was wearing the bikini and our giggles and gasps didn’t even alert him.

Steve was one of the most dignified and proud people I’ve ever met. If HE could wear the binki, WE could wear the binki. A couple times early on, I exaggerated a whine to model owning up, laughing at myself, recognizing when I could change my attitude, and accepting consequences, but I’ve also been caught in plenty legitimate whines.

I wore the darn thing while I checked into a motel, got gas, asked for directions and picked up take out. Everyone whines sometimes, but our little vacation troop whined a whole lot less this week. Hopefully it’ll sustain until we return home and the kids remember summer vacation is almost over. What? Summer is almost over? Are you serious? But, but, but… Oh, give me the binki.

The Three-legged Step Turtle

My box turtle Myrtle turned 31 last week. I talk about Myrtle all the time, but I’ve also got another turtle whose story should be told. His name is Tripod. He’s missing a hind foot.

Tripod was a gift from my friend and former coach Alice Heberlein in about 1998. I don’t even remember the exact date or year, and as someone who remembers all sorts of birthdays, I feel terrible about that. I should feel terrible! What kind of mom am I?  I’ve grown up all my life hearing jokes and thin insults about being the red headed step child, but in my house it’s more like the three-legged step turtle.

I tried to track down the origins of the phrase “red headed step child” but the internet wasn’t all that helpful.  The expression is used to indicate a person or thing that is neglected, unwanted, or mistreated. Tripod is certainly none of those, but in all my talks of Myrtle, he might appear to be.

Wanting to cheer me up after a losing season, Coach Heberlein handed me a paper bag after a junior varsity volleyball tournament. I was the JV coach, and our final record was 4-21. I was a good player, but as far as coaching goes, the wins were scarce. My players had fun (I think), and they learned about teamwork, work ethic, and sportsmanship when you lose, but we didn’t get many lessons in sportsmanship when you win.

When the paper bag started to wiggle, I was so confused.  So were the girls and giggles ensued as I reached in and pulled out a wriggling reptile. We should probably have a quick lesson on how giving pets to someone may not be the best idea, especially a turtle, because with one at 31 and the other now 16 or 17 years old, the recipient is in for quite a commitment. Luckily Tripod has been a wonderful, spunky addition to the family.

Every year when August hits, I can’t help but recall my years in volleyball as a player, a coach and as a brand new mom to Tripod. Even though football is historically the sports powerhouse and fall is the season of cross country, soccer, and high school swimming, all of these sports were like a three legged step turtle to me.

As tryouts and seasons begin, I want to wish all athletes—aspiring and seasoned— in all sports the best of luck. We all know who won that race between the rabbit  and the turtle. 

A Landscape with Hope

I’m fired up. I don’t usually write when I feel like this, so we’ll see how it goes. I’ll begin by offering thanks for the backspace and my bicycle.

I attended a test screening of “Add the Words” last Friday at the ISU theater.  The documentary chronicles protesters during the 2014 Idaho Legislature who want the words “sexual orientation and gender identity” added to the Idaho Human Rights Act. I went in to the show skeptical and feeling like I needed to see the perspective portrayed. I agree with the protesters that those words should be added. I admire their grit, but I’m not convinced that their actions weren’t more detrimental than helpful.  I went to the show in hopes of seeing behind the scenes material to convince me the continuing protests were a good idea.

A year and a half ago when I spoke as a member of the LGBT community at a Pocatello City Council, my reasons were twofold. I wanted to share my experiences of negative treatment and fear to offer a personal qualitative piece of data supporting non-discrimination legislation, but I also wanted to talk about how freakin’ great my life has been.  Cue Pharrell Williams’ jazzy, upbeat number one hit, “It might seem crazy what I'm about to say…”  I’ve grown up in south east Idaho and I’m happy!

As stories pour into the media and statehouses about the struggles and discrimination that LGBT people have faced, it’s paramount, for teens and adolescents especially, that accounts of hope and happiness appear as well. The “Add the Words” movie was certainly more focused on struggles and not about hope.  

The movie showed how the Idaho legislature has refused a hearing—just a hearing—and in essence is silencing hundreds of Idaho families whose voices deserve to be heard. These families and voices have been refused for eight years now.

While we call on legislators to give LGBT youth hope in the passing of laws, we’ve got to do our part to contribute to a landscape of hope. At the conclusion of the film, a number of people offered comments.  Someone on stage said that School District 25 doesn’t support gay/straight alliances (GSAs) and we were urged to call the superintendent.

I doubted this was true. From my seat in the theater, I messaged a friend who teaches U.S. Government at Highland High School. Pamela Fleischmann Peck ran the Human Rights club at HHS a couple years ago, but due to lack of student interest, the club became inactive.  She is more than willing to advise and resurrect the group. The infrastructure is there at Highland and only needs student interest to develop.

I also texted Irving Middle School principal Tonya Wilkes. She shrieked (as one possibly could via text) that clubs are absolutely allowed. She added that district administrators have recently gone through anti discrimination professional development and training. Central to this is recognizing and addressing issues like bullying, depression, and isolation encountered by LGBT youth or others in underrepresented economic, religious and ethnic groups.

I wanted a little more backbone than friend-to-friend chats on this, so I did call the School District 25 Office. I asked flat out: Are GSA clubs prohibited?  I got a clear cut, “No. We do not oppose the creation of a gay/straight alliance club.”

I learned that the creation of any school group is student-driven. If students want a club, the school and District support that. Before a group can be created, the school’s administration must find an adult volunteer within the school to be an advisor. Once one is found, the advisor will help the group get organized, define their intended purpose and plan activities to support their purpose. A GSA would be supported and run just like other school clubs.

Simply put, this public statement after the movie was inaccurate.

One of the last speakers after the film called for LGBT people to speak up. I agree that talking is important, but so is listening. In the midst of so much speaking up, we may not hear about changes that are happening, what school districts, teachers and allies are doing, and what lawmakers or other LGBT people are accomplishing on behalf of equal rights. 

There is more to be done. There will always be more to be done, but in not acknowledging or celebrating little victories and progress, I fear that hope can be lost. I hope that Idaho lawmakers will hold a hearing on adding the words next session and fewer protests arise because I’m still not convinced that halting all other legislative progress is a good idea.  My experience in south east Idaho tells me there is happiness and hope to be had. Kids should know that. 

If We Loved like Buddy Did

At this moment I have four columns started for the Tuesday’s “Education” page. They each need tweaks I haven’t pinpointed yet, and I doubt all of them will even see print. While writing in the bagel shop this week, I turned to Facebook for a brief distraction and perhaps inspiration. Ok, ok. It was more out of habit and addiction than purpose.

Not much happens among my social network when the weather is beautiful, but my pal Carol’s post stopped my scrolling instantly. “I said goodbye to Buddy today. I held his head, and he went softly.”

I’m glad I’m comfortable in this town and in our bagel shop because my tears flowed freely. I finished my bite of bagel. Wiped my lips. Then my eyes. Then my nose. I needed more napkins for my nose.

Buddy was Carol’s beloved golden retriever. My own golden retriever is about to turn 13 and her sister, my former step dog, will be 14 in August. Both are losing their hearing and sight and have tumors scattered amidst their silvery golden fur. While mowing the lawn or riding my bike, I have found my mind writing their memorials before I even realize where my thoughts traveled. I love these golden girls, but neither of them is as great a dog as Buddy was.

Carol’s post continued, “Buddy was such a beautiful boy. I know why they call him ‘golden’. Buddy served people all of his life. He was a Counseling Dog for 10 years. He sat with kids who were sad or scared. He looked in the eyes of big strong men as they softly told him they had one like him.”

While playing city league basketball a few years ago, I wobbled out of the Hawthorne gym at half time to lean on the drinking fountain. I noticed a clipping from the ISJ on an office door. It was Carol’s office and it was an article about Buddy’s work as a therapy dog. He was handsome on his own but with his signature bandana, he was downright dashing.

The newspaper article talked about Buddy’s work during the weeks after the 2012 Newton, Connecticut school shooting and how he had come to be treasured therapy dog at Syringa Elementary and then at Hawthorne Middle School. Buddy spent time as a calming and welcoming fixture at the threshold of Carol’s office at the top of Hawthorne’s main stairs.

Carol continued, “Buddy was my companion. He loved me always. He was there for me always. He trusted me always. Buddy loved to camp with the girls. Buddy loved going to school. Buddy loved the dog park. Buddy just simply loved.”

He did. He really, really did. I saw him in action a few times and was enchanted by his panting grin. Our world would be better if we loved like Buddy did. If we just simply loved.