The 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous

Last summer, the Poky and Highland classes of 1990 had to cancel their joint 30-year high school reunion due to Covid. Fueled by long-lasting Poky Pride and Ram Power, organizers wanted to hold their event this year. They knew that their younger 1991 cohorts would be planning their own 30-year summer soiree, so numbers were exchanged. Texts were traded. And, now there’s a weekly Zoom meeting with representatives from all four classes to plan the 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous.

I talk all the time about how I loved high school and how much I still love Poky High. I also generally like people and still live in my hometown. I’m pretty much a poster child for the kind of person who enjoys a good class reunion – and who eagerly joins the planning committee. It’s been fun getting to know and exchange jabs with the Highland folks. As the getting-to-know has increased, the exchanging of jabs has lessened. Some of us really have grown up since high school.

With the advent and rise of social media, some classmates have told me there’s no need to catch up in person because they can already see what everyone is up to. Well, almost everyone. Class reunions may very well fade off into the social media sunset, but I sure hope ours doesn’t.  

When we had our 20^th, I wrote the following in a letter to the editor about my classmates. These words still apply today.

Some of us revel in our high school memories while some of us cringe and are thankful every day that it’s over. Some of us aren’t where we wanted to be. Some of us surpassed all expectations. Some, because no expectations were placed on us. Some of us are fat, think we are fat or are unhealthily thin. Some of us are happily married. Some of us are getting divorced—for the second time. Some of us can’t wait to bring our partner while some of us are silently wrestling with the idea. Some of us have 3.5 kids. Some of us have 8 in a blended family. Some of us are regretting not having children and some of us have lost a child. Or a spouse. Or a parent. Or both of them.

Some of us want to come back for a Buddy’s salad. Some of us need to check in with our parents, so the reunion is as good a time as any.  Some of us have never left southeast Idaho and love it here, while some stayed and feel trapped. Some of us are nicer than we used to be. Some of us are as nice as we always were but are now more outgoing so the world can see it. Some of us are still shy. Some of us are still jerks. Some of us drink. Some of us don’t. Some of us probably shouldn’t. Some of us have heard, “you have cancer” and some of us delight in each new sunrise.

Some of us loved every minute of high school, and some of us hated it all. But ALL of us spent part of our existence, simultaneously inside the old brick walls of Highland or Poky High. And all of us can make our reunion weekend whatever we want, or need, it to be.  I want it to be fun and filled with my classmates’ many personalities. I want to reconnect with some and meet others for the first time. I want new, happy memories. This is what I want. What we need, however, are RSVP’s. 

If you are part of Highland’s or Poky’s class of 1990 or 1991, we’d love to see you July 23 and 24 – and we’d love for you to RSVP. You can email pokyhighlandreunion9091@gmail.com for all of the details.

The first night is planned in Highland’s neighborhood with food trucks at the Portneuf Wellness Complex The second night is planned in Poky’s neighborhood with a catered dinner at the Downtown Pavilion. These two main events will be outside and allow for social distancing, and we will continue to monitor CDC and local health department recommendations. We’re working on optional Saturday activities like golf, swimming, school tours and more.

These past couple years have been a doozy. Between politics and the pandemic; the economy and everyday life; global conflict and local clashes, people’s differences seem to be in greater focus than what we have in common. I crave peace. I crave connection. Funny thing is – I believe peace comes from connection, and those connections start with nourishing what we have in common.  That’s exactly why I hope those in the Poky and Highland Classes of 1990 and 1991 will join us at the 30-year Black and Blue Rendezvous: to celebrate and nourish what we have in common.

I Can Own this Day

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on May 9, 2021.

This past week our youngest turned 13. THIRTEEN! He marked the date by placing 13^th in his cross-country race with a time of 13:13. During his race, with his permission, some friends and I dressed up in my cow suits to cheer for the runners. Why the cow suits? Because I have them. They are fun. Who better to ring the encouraging cowbells than a bunch of cows?  Smiling heifers are perfect messengers urging runners to “Keep Moooving!”

At his first meet this season, he asked me not to wear the cow suit and cheer. I could certainly cheer, but in normal clothes. I suspected my cow suits and I were on borrowed time with the kids as they traverse their teenage years, but I was still disappointed. Gratitude and slight pride eclipsed my disappointment when I grasped that he was comfortable asserting his wishes knowing I might feel let down. My personality is not always one that invites dissent, especially from my stepkids. I honored his wishes.

When his second race rolled around, I was informed that it would be okay if I wore the cow suit. It would also be okay if I let the coach’s dog, Solomon, wear our dog-fitted cow suit. Ah. So this was about his coach and Solomon, an easy-going golden retriever who is a service dog for one of the coach’s sons. Solomon was key to my stepson being okay, even eager, to have his stepmom root for him and everyone else in a cow suit.

When I use the word “step” referring to our kids or myself it often elicits a correction or commentary. Some folks tell me they use the word “bonus” as in “bonus mom” or “bonus kids.” I like that. It’s cute and a positive spin counter to the connotations that come to mind with Cinderella’s evil stepmother, but it’s not a vernacular I grew up with. I am really okay with “stepmom” as it pertains to me and my relationship with the younger two kids. Their older sister was in her tweens when I came into their lives, and now that she’s in her 20’s, I’m simply “her Billie.” These monikers suit our family.

This is my fourth Mother’s Day as a state-recognized stepmother. Now instead of only spending this day reflecting on my own mother and the many women (teachers in particular) who helped raise me, this day holds reflections of my role in these kids’ lives.  What am I doing right? What am I doing wrong? No good mother rests on Mother’s Day, do they?

It’s easy to romanticize the day as brunches, flowers, and kindergarten finger-paintings, but the older I get, the more complicated I realize Mother’s Day can be.  For the first few after my mom died, the Hallmark display was right in front of my preferred entrance at Fred Meyer. I couldn’t avoid the orchids and cards and they were a gut-punch when I just needed milk and eggs.  They weren’t a celebration, they were a reminder of loss.

From what I write, you would think my mom was an angel on earth who never made a parenting misstep, but truthfully, depending on my brain space, my Mother’s Day reflections might revisit all of her mistakes. Sometimes I take steps in the direction of grace and forgiveness, and sometimes I take steps to wallow in bitterness and grief. Thanks to the springtime sun, my bike and a happy 13 year old in the house, this is looking to be a grace and forgiveness kind of Mother’s Day on that front.

I have deeply appreciated how my wife, the kids’ dad and the children themselves have embraced and empowered me in my role as a stepmom. We’ve got the co-parenting, carpools, permission slips, and problem-solving that many families do. I often feel like somewhat of an imposter on this holiday because I did not come about motherhood the way my own mom did, but through all of the exhaustion, guilt, joy and second-guessing, it’s pretty clear that I can own this day with the rest of the moms out there. I have all of the mom love, fear, worry and hope.  And as the 13 year old will attest, thanks to the cow suits, bells and obnoxious cheers, I’ve become great at embarrassing him, too. Yep. I can definitely own this day.

 

The Trombone Player

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on April 25, 2021.

Have you noticed the shiny blue pinwheels in your area? I first spotted them a few weeks ago around the ISU campus and noticed some in Idaho Falls this week. For the last few years, they’ve popped up in April for Child Abuse Prevention month. I’ve said many times that my childhood was shaped by child abuse – not because I encountered it, but because my mom was a child protection worker. If she were alive today, there would be pinwheels in her yard, on her car antenna and tucked behind her ears. She would tell me, “Honey, if you can carry around your cell phone, you can carry a pinwheel for a month to spread awareness about this problem and call for its end.”

I have not been carrying a blue pinwheel this month, but I’ve been wrestling with what to write. The arsenal of prevention tips, the laws I came to know, the agencies I could highlight, the stories she told and the kids I met personally leave me wondering where to begin. I’ll start with the trombone player.

I met the trombone player when I was 8 and he about 13. His mother had troubles with drugs and alcohol, and his father was violent and cruel. His dad would play catch with him and throw the ball too high or too hard and then beat him when he couldn’t catch it. He would set his son up to fail and then berate and punish him for it. The neglect from one parent compounded by the emotional and physical abuse from the other were horrendous. I can’t recall if their parental rights were terminated or if they surrendered their child to the state, but I met him when he first went into foster care. This was also when he started to play the trombone.

His trombone-playing was significant because my mom played the instrument in high school. She always told me that I, too, would play it someday. It wasn’t so much a choice as it was a mandate, and I was underwhelmed at the prospect until I met the trombone player. He was kind and always smiled at me. When he was in high school and got a job at a local pizza parlor, Mom would take me there on Friday nights, so she could check in with him. He’d sneak me ice cream and quarters to play video games. I couldn’t wait to play the trombone like he did.

He was eventually adopted and moved out of state. He wrote letters to Mom and called her once in a while, but that trickled to an end in his late teens.  Years later, out of the blue, he called Mom at home one night. I could hear only parts of their conversation where she laughed and cried and kept spilling the kind of encouragement I was accustomed to. When they hung up, Mom sobbed.  

The trombone player, who had gone on to earn a music scholarship in college, had called because he was now a young father. He was worried he was going to be like his dad because he felt his temper with his toddler and he didn’t want to be that man. He needed help.

Mom offered tips about not reacting in the moment and counting through breaths, but what he really needed was professional counseling. She committed to tracking down agencies in the city where he was living and got back to him.

Although he was miles away and years had passed, the trombone player had a personal connection which made that phone call easier than reaching out to a stranger. But my mom had been a stranger to him at the beginning.  Just like then, there are strangers in our midst today who want to help.  In the Pocatello/Chubbuck area, I’m familiar with the Family Services Alliance and the Bannock Youth Foundation’s Family Resource Center as having free counseling available. Health West offers counseling services on a sliding scale, and the Family and Children’s Services division of the Department of Health and Welfare can also be a starting point to connect to counseling resources. 

Breaking the cycles of child abuse is the cornerstone of prevention.   I grew up understanding that “hurt people hurt people.” When we as adults find ourselves in situations where our own hurt is leading us to hurt others, it’s on us to examine our behaviors and work to change. It’s monumentally difficult to hold ourselves accountable as adults for the behaviors we learned as children, but it’s not impossible. The trombone player did it. Child abuse prevention can start with questions, recognition and a phone call – not just during this Child Abuse Prevention Month, but any time at all.