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.