The Important Things

I began writing the gist of this column last fall, but it never came to fruition.  It’s apropos that I finish it on Day 1 of 2015.

Of the many out there, I enjoyed my personal “year in review” on Facebook.  My most “liked” photo was taken in August of 1952 on Pike’s Lake in northern Wisconsin.  It shows my mom at age 10 in a picturesque, perfect-form swan dive off of a rickety dock and makeshift diving board. Three other kids are waiting on the 10-foot platform behind her. I’m sure it was a gorgeous summer day on the precipice of fall, but the black and white photograph leaves it to my imagination.  A LIFE Magazine photographer was vacationing at a neighboring cabin and happened to capture the shot.

The picture is framed and hangs in the center of my house. It’s what I see when I leave my bedroom in the morning as I trip over the dogs and the new cat Phil (who’s doing great, by the way) en route to the coffee. Whether I consciously take in the sight of my free and flying ten year old mom and the other kids or only give them a glance, my mind sees them daily. Everyone in that photograph is now dead.

Right across from Mom’s swan dive in my narrow hallway is another purposeful centerpiece of my home. It’s an 8x10 print by Brian Andreas which reads, “Everything changed the day she figured out there was exactly enough time for the important things in her life.”   

This is starting to sound like the Robin Williams trophy case scene in Dead Poet’s Society.  That is the scene where he introduces the students to the Walt Whitman poem, “O Captain, My Captain.” Robin’s character Mr. Keating asks the male students to “peruse some of the faces from the past” in the black and white pictures enshrined in the trophy case. He tells them that those faces were once as young and vibrant as theirs, but now they are “fertilizing daffodils.”

Robin Williams’ death this year made me cry. Hard and often. His character in that movie gave a monologue about those old photographs that rings in my ears as poignantly as any parental advice ever did.  “They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable?  Seize the day, Boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

That’s pretty much the pep talk I give myself every New Year’s Day.

On this New Year’s Day, what have I done with my time so far? I set my sights on quality writing over coffee, some quiet to send New Year’s letters—because Christmas cards didn't happen, and a hunt for endorphins in the snowy sunshine.  This is hardly the quality I’d hoped for. The house has hardly been quiet, and endorphins continue to elude me. Exercise has to be more important in 2015 than it has in 2014.

Nope, I’ve spent the first morning of the new year trying to unlock the door to my girlfriend’s sons’ bedroom. One of the little twerps locked it on our way to a New Years Eve party. We discovered it at 10:30pm. She had to take a shuttle to Salt Lake at 6am for her grandmother’s memorial service in Texas and their dad has plans for the day before he picks them up this evening.  (Although I’m beyond positive he would come grab the kids in an instant if I needed him to.)

So, what’s the big deal if they can’t get into their room for a day? All of their Christmas toys are in there to entertain them and facilitate the quiet, and that’s where their clean underwear is. If I’m in charge of getting them ready to go to their dad’s, clean underwear is important!

I turned to Facebook. My friends sent YouTube videos, other tips, and an uncle’s phone number who’s a retired locksmith. Do you think he’d come over on New Year’s Day and not charge more than what  the Christmas toys are worth?  By golly, he did.  He made us important for an hour on his first day of 2015. Bless him. His fee was more than reasonable, but seemingly astronomical to the little door-lockers who've been silent since.

We've got clean underwear and a bit o’ quiet, and that is important and enough for now while I wonder what will bubble to the forefront of 2015’s other important things.

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.