The speech I didn’t get to give

I had dinner with Governor Otter last week. Ok, ok. I was seated at the table next to him at the Idaho Business Review’s (IBR) “Women of the Year” event. His wife Lori and I were among the evening’s honorees. (My essay provided to the selection committee can be found here, and yes. I included that picture.)

Last fall Ann Swanson, Idaho Small Business Development Center Director, nominated me for the award that she received last year.  The IBR recognized 50 women throughout the state and the dinner gala culminated with three-time gold medal cyclist Kristin Armstrong Savola named the top “Woman of the Year.” I am tickled to say that I “lost” to a three-time gold medalist.

We were told to prepare some remarks in case we won the big award. This is the speech I didn’t get give. 

I recently saw an article on imposter syndrome. This doesn’t feel like the syndrome; I feel like an imposter.  I would never characterize myself as “womanly” so being named one of the “Women of the Year” makes me feel like an imposter. For example, I bet most of you will purposefully apply make up again tomorrow, whereas, by midmorning my wife will silently hand me an eye makeup remover packet because I always forget that bar soap before bed isn't enough.

Most of you have done it all with kids and married life. I became a stepparent six months ago, and ever since, all I want to do is sleep. I understand the "mama needs wine and chocolate” memes now. How have you done it? 

I see three key events that led me to the “Women of the Year”. I’d like to touch on them briefly.

The first began in 2012 when Pocatello embarked upon adding “sexual orientation and gender identity” protections to city code.  Several Idaho cities have done this because the state hasn’t.  I watched my social media fill with vitriol and anger.   Good friends who identify as religious or faithful said terrible things about the LGBT community. LGBT friends used the same tone about members of faith communities.  As I read comments and editorials, I wondered, “Do my friends and acquaintances know me? Do they know they are hurting me?” This led me to testify in front of the City Council and write letters to the editor to urge a cease fire to all the hurting, and then I became a regular columnist for the Idaho State Journal. 

Second, I went through a devastating break up of a 12 year relationship which coincided with writing weekly columns. I was hurt, raw, and extremely vulnerable. No opinion I shared or tidbit about my personal life could elicit a response from trolls or antagonists that would hurt more than the pain I was already confronting. I learned how truly resilient I am, and in turn readers got to know more about me and I got to know readers.

Third, on a Tuesday night in February of 2014, a sophomore on the Pocatello High School girls’ basketball team took her own life.  I saw myself in her.   I played basketball on the same team at that same age and I had gone through many of the same revelations, fears and conflicts about who I was and how life was going to be.  Her death led me to write some pieces which resulted in opportunities to volunteer with the school district in a variety of capacities.  The resilience I uncovered in myself, I hope to impart to young people facing any kind of challenge.  Often in a cow suit; tonight, a pant suit.

My mother always told me I belonged. In elementary school, I belonged on the football field at recess with the boys because that’s where I wanted to be. In college, I belonged on the volleyball team when I walked on and eventually became a starter. When receiving my engineering degree, I belonged at the front of the line leading the processional. When I am the only women in project meetings at work—I belong. When penning columns for the local newspaper frequently as the only woman and minority—I belong.

As much of an imposter as I might feel, I know I belong in this room with all of you—makeshift mascara and all. We are all dreamers and doers and lovers of this great state. There are opportunities for strong networks of friends, acquaintances and even strangers all around us, and that proverbial village along with a little resilience and grit has allowed me to thrive.

I thank the Idaho Business Review for including me among their 50 “Women of the Year” for 2017.  In doing so, you’ve bolstered one of my core beliefs that I—and the many young people like me who need to hear it—belong. We belong right here in Idaho living, loving and thriving.

Jena and I at the digital marquee before the event.

 

Sarah and I photo-bombing Shelly and Cheryl. Sarah was photo-bombing me!

My pic on the HUGE screen in the banquet room.

Friends of 20 years Shelly and Cheryl (they're not 20; we met 20 years ago) and Sarah. Cheryl surprised me by having her company sponsor the table we got to sit at.

The award

Chandler helping me capture a pic of the award.  Evidence that it's truly a miracle I ever got anything done to even be considered for this award.

At coffee the next day, Jena found this reusable shopping bag styled after work by the artist Piet Mondrian. The design was on the doors of my childhood home and was the inspiration for my wedding ring. (I was dressing like a goof on purpose BTW.) Days like this make me want to shout "Mom! Mom! Guess what!" and wish that she could see it all. Best part of the whole two days was this little sign that perhaps she did see it all.

The Warm Fire of Mama Dragons

A recent Idaho State Journal headline read, “Mama Dragon, Debbie Glenn, to Speak at ISU.” Debbie Glenn has become somewhat of an accidental advocate since learning that her son Tyler is gay. (Tyler is the lead singer of the multi-platinum, Provo-based band, Neon Trees.)  She will be speaking this Thursday, February 16 from 4-6pm in the Wood River Suites of the Student Union Building. 

The term “Mama Dragon” was born out of a 2012 blog by Meg Abhau when she described her feelings after her own 13-year-old son came out as gay: 

“I have always been a mother bear. Once I found out about Jon, that didn’t seem a fierce enough title. There is a whole new level of protection that has come over me. I now call myself a Mama Dragon. I could literally breathe fire if someone hurt my son. Dragons have talons, scales, claws, fangs and they can fly. I will use all of these resources if someone were to hurt Jon. So, we are circling our wagons around him, but I know we can’t protect him from everything. And as a Mama Dragon, that is the hardest part of this. I don’t know what the future holds. I just know that there will be love.”

Mama Dragons formed because they fiercely love their LGBT children.

I remember reading this blog almost five years ago. It was one of the first lengthy and widely shared testimonies on the topic that I had seen from a Mormon mother. Anyone can type opinions from behind the veil of a computer screen or anonymous username, but this woman was using her real name, her son’s real name and she was sharing her faith and love openly and unapologetically.

The Mama Dragons have grown from that blog. They have a website at mamadragons.org, a Board of Directors and satellite groups around the country to connect and strengthen mothers seeking to support their gay and transgender children. The group began with women in the LDS church but now encompasses members of all faiths as well as people without a religious affiliation. I have wondered if my mother would have sought the camaraderie of Mama Dragons if she were alive today. Sadly, I don’t think so.

I’ve written numerous columns about my mom’s love, support, wit and wonderful outlook on life, but upon hearing I was gay, her first comment to her straight-A, high-achieving and good-natured kid was, “I’m disgusted, humiliated and embarrassed.” Those words burned. I was 18 and remember thinking, “Gee, Mom. Good thing you raised me with the confidence to handle your hurt.” 

My own hurt swirled after that, and I can’t explain how my young heart and mind were able to reconcile it with compassion. Mom’s dreams of a handsome son-in-law were destroyed. Stigmas stifled her ability to see a promising future for me. It took years, her terminal illness and imminent death to even broach talking about this part of me. It’s not only today’s kids who are benefitting from the Mama Dragon’s, but yesteryear’s kids are too.  

Debbie Glenn’s upcoming talk has been in the works since last September. Pocatello’s Trinity Episcopal Church has a committee dedicated to LGBT issues and during a meeting last fall, one of the church members brought up the Mama Dragons.  She’s related to Debbie Glenn through marriage and asked if having her come to Pocatello to talk about the Mama Dragons, her experiences with her son and her LDS faith would be a good idea. 

I about jumped out of my chair. “Yes!  Yes, it would be a good idea!  Call the ISU Gender Resource Center and see if we can work on this together.”  Mrs. Glenn’s willingness to publicly share her struggles and personal uncertainties along with her love and support of her son are healing for me. Kids need moms who will do this. Parents of LGBT children need other parents who will do this.

People are complex. “Intersectionality” is a term I’ve encountered lately in news articles and dialogue among friends.  People are not defined by a single chosen or inherent label.  We possess many identities and to fully understand individual experiences, elements of each identity must be examined.  Mrs. Glenn’s intersections as a mother, an LDS woman, and having a son who is gay will likely lead to a testimony about complex human issues she’s faced in the last few years. 

Make-believe dragons seem to possess an innate fire and courage simply because they are dragons, but real-life mamas can have them, too. Fire doesn’t have to burn. Fire can be soothing and warm. Fire can invite conversation and stories. Fire is energy, and I welcome the warm fire of the Mama Dragons this week. 

 

For more information, see www.mamadragons.org

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.