Maddness, Dreams and Accolades: In Memory of John S. Wright

I’m throwing in the white flag and putting my bikes away for 2016. With a self-diagnosis of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), those last few rides are bittersweet. I’ve felt like a teen without a phone charger watching my battery die. One of my last rides was on the Shady Side Greenway trail through the Ross Park disc golf course. There’s a bench along the pavement south of the Veteran’s Memorial that says “In Memory of John S. Wright.” I usually cruise by my friend’s bench, but on this day shortly after the election, I stopped and thought for a bit.

I met John in the spring of 2000 at Bartz Field. He was a tall train conductor in his 50’s who loved to run. We became part of the “Dog Park Pack” after a dozen or so of us kept showing up at the same time in the evening.  We watched our crazy canines chase. We alerted each other when Mutt-mitts were needed, and as time passed we took snacks and drinks to watch the sunset together while our dogs danced. 

One summer night before the ISU softball field was built, an LDS youth group left some ice blocks on the old sledding hill. John had never heard of ice blocking—getting large blocks of ice and riding them down a grassy hill like a sled—but after I explained it, he beamed and yelled, “let’s go!”

John’s grin is as memorable as his long-legged stride. He beat me to the blocks, so I watched from the base.  He giggled with glee as he bounced down the hill barely keeping his balance. The sun was near setting, so the field was a glowing open space for people and dogs to feel free.  

This is my portrait of John before he had a stroke in 2002. Smiling, strong and free to move. 

After his stroke, John lost a lot of mobility on his left side. He could no longer run or even drive, but he could shuffle-walk with a cane.  His short term memory was compromised along with his “filter;” John’s thoughts flew out of his mouth. John and I had similar political and philosophical views, so I got a kick out of his concise and spontaneous post-stroke musings.

Every time I saw John, he complimented me like we hadn’t met for ages. “Billie, I sure like your hair! My, you have a great athletic build. Have you been working out?”  He had seen me play rugby once and held on to that. Whenever the Dog Park Pack got together for a potluck, birthday or game of Apples to Apples, John’s accolades flew as free as he used to run.

 

The last time I saw John, we went to lunch at Buddy’s. As we started the five-block drive back to his house, he blurted “Billie, do you ever dream that you can still run?”  

I experienced an injury that prevented me from running, and John considered this to be something we had in common. I wove through the college neighborhood to extend our talk, and told him I only day dreamed about it. When we got to his house with his good hand on the door handle, he said wistfully, “Man, I dream about it a lot. And it’s so great because I’ll be running so fast and free and then I wake up and I can’t do any of that.”  

I was speechless. What could I say? I simply said, “Wow. That must be maddening.” 

He chuckled. “That’s exactly the word! Maddening!”  He nodded for a minute taking in the new-to-him expression and smiled. “Guess, I’ll just keep hoping that the madness goes away one day. Thanks for lunch Billie, Let’s do it again.”  

I didn’t get to have another lunch with John, but I took comfort that he didn’t experience that madness much longer—or the madness I’ve felt over the past few months.

As I sat on John’s bench a couple weeks ago, I pulled up his 2009 obituary on my phone to refresh my memory.  John was known for “his sweet and adventurous spirit, his generosity and welcoming nature, and his curiosity about the world around him. John loved to engage people in conversations, sometimes perfect strangers, to learn more about their lives and backgrounds. He also had an unusual degree of tolerance for views other than his own, and went out of his way to listen to and respect others' viewpoints.”

John’s ability or tendency to say exactly what was on his mind wasn’t nearly as remarkable as his mind itself.  His mind held joy, kindness and reverence for mankind—as did his dreams and accolades, even in the midst of his madness. Kind minds lead to kind words. Rational minds lead to rational words. We need more minds like John’s right now.  At least, I do.

John was such a character and a delight.

Call it what it is!

Last Wednesday as I was settling into bed for the night, I scrolled through Facebook on my phone. Six books are on my nightstand, but I’m consistently drawn into the worm holes of social media when my brain should be shutting down for the day. The Idaho State Journal shared a link to a news story with the following post:

“A former Blackfoot High School girls’ soccer coach will serve at least one year in prison after she pleaded guilty to having a sexual relationship with an underage player. “  

I’m not numb to the content of the story, but I have to address the journalistic language. “[H]aving a sexual relationship”?  That word choice sure implies consent when the victim isn't of legal age to give it. How about “sexual misconduct"? Or "sexual abuse? Call it what it is!

Perhaps it's because my mother was a child protection worker or perhaps it's because I’ve grown up to be an intelligent and reasonable person who thinks any kind of sexual misconduct like this should be called out for being exactly what it is. Misconduct. Abuse. Rape. Taglines and phrases like "having a sexual relationship" or "the coach and student had an affair" infuriate me almost as much as the offense itself. 

I’m not a survivor of child sexual or physical abuse, but I endured a childhood overwhelmed by it. I was guilted into gratitude in checkout lines when I’d ask for a candy bar and the “no” was couched in a reminder of kids who had it worse. I hunkered down in the backseat of a state car one night when Mom was on call and needed to remove a toddler with second degree burns from his home. He was scalded with hot bath water for having “an accident.” I accompanied Mom on trips to transport siblings from foster homes to visit their biological parents, and I waited in hospital waiting rooms while rape kits were performed on children. I was never tall enough to reach the TV and was stuck watching grown up shows. I was stuck in a grown up show. 

One time while I was in college, I listened as mom beat herself up on the phone when a man who had been in her caseload years before called.  He called from many states away to ask where he could get help because he was starting to see himself engage in the same type of emotional and physical abuse with his own son that his biological father had with him. Through the course of the conversation, he also told her of sexual abuse during his adolescence from his foster and later adoptive father. After his real father had been so terribly physically abusive, the young man was understandably confused about boundaries and what a healthy love looks like, so he never told anyone. He hadn’t intended to share his story of sexual abuse that night, but that’s where their conversation went. Mom could scarcely summon words to help direct him while she replayed her unwitting interactions years ago with the abuser. He seemed like a nice man.

It doesn’t take a PhD in counseling or psychology to hear me talk about my window to child sexual abuse and watching it take its toll on my Mom to ask—do I hold such a disdain for predators and abuse for what they do to kids? Or for what they do to the adults (read: moms) trying to uncover, stop, prosecute, and counsel after the abuse? 

After I saw the ISJ’s posting Wednesday, commented on it, and shared the story on my own feed with commentary mirroring this, I got a message from a childhood friend thanking me for speaking out. My friend disclosed that they experienced sexual abuse as a child from an esteemed authority figure and, after years of silence, has only recently been able to experience healing.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, people like my friend feel victimized all over again.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, we risk becoming desensitized to the seriousness and prevalence of it. In cases like that of the ex-soccer coach, it’s also critical to use accurate language because it highlights that sexual predators aren’t just scary men lurking in dark alleys. They can be coaches, teachers, church leaders, relatives, people running for office… anyone of any gender. 

I’m going to keep asking (demanding) that the Idaho State Journal headlines, taglines and accounts of sexual crimes call them what they are. The first step in stopping sexual violence and abuse is recognizing it. We can’t do that until we call it what it is.

What I Needed to Hear This Week

Last Sunday morning I met a friend at the boarded-up gas station on Bannock Highway. We biked a 43 mile round trip trek to McCammon. The workout took four hours as we visited, stopped for snacks and took in the green hills that cradle our valley in June. I saw headlines about a shooting in Orlando before the ride, but it wasn’t until I was home and reaching for ibuprofen that the monstrous nature of the attack became clear.

I’m getting married to a wonderful woman this September. She’s beautiful and smart and loves everything about me. OK, almost everything.  We took our engagement pictures this week up Cusic Creek amidst the lush wildflowers, and last Sunday morning while I was biking to McCammon oblivious to the desecration in Orlando, the photos started coming in on my phone.

I expected to have the usual engagement questions last Sunday afternoon: How’s my hair? Do I have a double chin? Do you think people can tell I’ve gained 25 pounds in the last six months as I’ve struggled to balance my diet and exercise plan in this prelude to step-parenthood? 

But instead, we asked each other: Do we really want to announce this in the paper? Are you sure we’ll be safe at an outdoor, highly populated, public reception? Does the newspaper always print the names of marriage licenses? Our wedding planning was interrupted with severe and immediate concerns for safety.

I’ve heard people say “It doesn’t matter that the victims were gay”, and in one sense, I appreciate that LGBT people are included in the general classification of humanity and any loss of life is tragic. On the other hand, it matters very much to me that the victims were gay because it highlights why many of us still live in fear.  When any group you belong to is targeted, it takes on a different element of meaning.

As I went back and forth between news stories and engagement pictures last Sunday, I didn’t need to hear that my hair was fine, my chin was singular and the extra weight looks good on me. I needed to hear much, much more. 

I needed to hear Pocatello Mayor Brian Blad speak at the vigil at Caldwell Park acknowledging our humanity, and I needed to hear the local Muslim Iman offer the kind words and prayers that he did.

I received an email from Idaho U.S. Attorney Wendy Olson. I met Ms. Olson at a community conversation at City Hall a few weeks ago. After an hour long conversation on building community trust between residents and the Pocatello Police Department, a sign-in sheet was passed around to gather emails and phone numbers. I didn’t expect her to use my email address for a personal correspondence in which she began “I am reaching out to check in on members and supporters of the LGBTQ community in various parts of Idaho in light of yesterday’s horrific events at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. While any words I have are insufficient to describe the magnitude of the horror in Orlando, please know that the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Idaho stands ready to support all LGBTQ persons in Idaho.” I didn’t realize until after I read those words, but I needed to hear them this week.

I also had an exchange with Pocatello Police Chief Scott Marchand. He asked for ideas and discussed ways to build, maintain and strengthen the Police Department’s relationship with the LGBT community. He also noted plans to have officers at the Pocatello Pride event for both community interaction and to add a touch of security so people can enjoy the event. I needed to hear that this week.

Some of the most poignant words I needed to hear this week came in a speech from a self-proclaimed “balding, youngish, middle-aged, straight, white, male, Republican politician with all of the expectations and privileges that come with those labels.”  Utah LT Gov Spencer Cox choked on a heartfelt apology for his past treatment of LGBT individuals; talked of his anger, sadness and confusion over the attack—words I’ve used to describe my own feelings; and he called for “less politics and more kindness.” Great words for any audience.

I know actions are needed in response to the many facets of the Orlando shooting, but actions begin with thoughts and words, and perhaps my favorite words that spilled out on social media were inspired by a stranger’s viral post.

“I love you. I want you to be alive. I will stand with you.” It doesn’t get more basic or simple than that. I don’t like to blanketly speak for others, but I’ll go ahead and say that LGBT people needed to hear that this week.

 

Remembering on Memorial Day

I was 19 and driving on South Fourth Street in Pocatello where Whittier Elementary used to be. The vacant building was still there and I turned my eyes from the road to take it in. Then - SLAM! I rear-ended the car in front of me. It was an elderly couple on their way to the cemetery to put flowers on their son's grave.

Thoughts were zipping through my head. At the forefront should have been these people, their late son and the trouble I’d just caused, but my mind was elsewhere. My mom was going to kill me. My insurance was going to go up, and the yelling I was going to endure would be the worst of my life. This was my fault, and I was going to get a ticket. I was going to lose my car. My independence. My freedom.

When the police arrived, the senior couple explained how a car had run the stop sign between the Elmer's parking lot and what is now Coho. They stopped abruptly to avoid it but I hadn’t been able to react as quickly. They gave a description of the vehicle, and officers tracked it down during the course of questioning us. That driver was cited for causing the accident. I was not cited. 

The officer who questioned me was so kind. His kindness stung. I wasn't entirely truthful with him. I didn’t deserve his soothing tone or sympathetic ear.  I likely could have avoided the accident if I hadn’t been looking away and been lost in the memory of a terrible time in Kindergarten.

Photo taken about 3 years after Kindergarten. (Photo by Cindy McMichael and used with permission.)

I was remembering how I climbed the monkey bars to get away from an older boy. As my legs dangled, he grabbed the cuffs of my pant legs and pulled. My elastic-banded pants fell to my ankles. I started kicking and flailing. I was embarrassed and mortified and wanted to let go and pull up my pants, but then I'd be on the ground with him. This was during recess, so we were not alone and I didn’t feel like I was truly in danger, but I was extremely humiliated with so many other kids around staring at me in my underwear. I had difficulty kicking, but I held on for dear life while my little five year old legs whirred like a helicopter so no one could get near me. Especially the mean boy. 

When I hit the old couple's car, the crash sling-shotted my focus back to the present. My gut was filled with embarrassment and shame from that memory, and then with the crash, a different embarrassment and shame emerged. The swirl of those emotions from past and present swelled and stayed with me for days. 

Shortly after the crash, my mom marched me to the store and picked out a thank-you card. She called the police station and tracked down the name of the officer who interviewed me. We sent him a "thank you" for his kindness and understanding “on Memorial Day”. I never told her I had been distracted. 

About a decade later when I coached junior varsity volleyball at Poky High, the officer’s daughter was on the team. I see him around town often. He's still in the ranks here in Pocatello and has had a notable and noble career in various capacities in law enforcement. 

My Memorial Day’s often begin with remembering him and this incident and his compassion I didn’t deserve. I wonder about the son of the elderly couple and how he died. Considering their ages at the time, he might have been killed in Vietnam, but that’s conjecture on my part. I should have asked them about their son. From there, my reflections spread to the countless others in our military and law enforcement who have died in the line of duty.

Of course I'm grateful for them and so many others, but for me on Memorial Day, that gratitude is counterbalanced with a heaping side of guilt over the accident I caused on a Memorial Day years ago and never fessing up about it.  And while both guilt and gratitude are formidable guides in my life's path, it's always a challenge for me to lead with more gratitude and less guilt on this day.  At 19 I was worried about losing my freedom and independence due to a fender bender when this day is about how my freedom and independence are even able to exist—through the service and sacrifice of so many American men and women. I’m not only grateful for them, but also that I’ve grown up enough to grasp exactly what I should be remembering on Memorial Day.