Loud, Proud Poky Pep Band Member

Published in the Idaho State Journal on September 13, 2020

This August marks thirty-two years since I got my first Poky High t-shirt. It was bright red with a white screen print of a Native American in a headdress with the words “Loud Proud Poky Pep Band Member.”  I played the trombone, so the “loud” came easy. As I joined the ranks of Pocatello High School’s culture and traditions surrounding the Indians mascot, the “proud” came even easier.  

Kevin Callahan, acting chairman of the Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, recently sent a letter to Idaho schools with, in his words, “concerning mascots”. In an August Idaho State Journal editorial, Mr. Callahan said, “We hope we can arrange for future dialogue with school districts and municipal leadership that will hopefully lead to improving and transforming local and state race relations. From a Tribal perspective, what was once acceptable is no longer acceptable today.”

He is speaking from a Tribal perspective and his personal perspective. It is important to me that I listen.

In high school, I loved playing the Traditionals on my trombone. I loved earning tomahawk patches for my volleyball sweatshirt. I love that I was a part of something that has lasted for well over a hundred years, but I am now processing how something so dear to me has contributed to undercurrents of bigotry and been outright racist.

Those are harsh words. Undercurrents of bigotry and outright racist. I say them without hesitation because, through reading and research, I have come to accept the slap-in-the-face those words feel like. It has been a very personal, willful endeavor in learning.  With that in mind, the question before us isn’t really, “should the Pocatello Indians mascot be retired?”  But rather the two questions before us are (1) is the Indians mascot racist, offensive or harmful and (2) do we care what that answer is?

That first question has been answered with personal stories, social research and expanding definitions of racism that come with increased understanding as diverse humans live together. The Indian mascot has intended to honor, but voices heard throughout the nation in recent decades are saying that the impact has been quite the opposite – that mascots have led to bullying, harassment and cultural appropriation that is an affront to Native Americans and their heritage.

The Shoshone-Bannock Tribe as a whole has requested that Native mascots be removed, but what about the individual Native Americans who think the Indian mascot and the way that Pocatello High School has worked to be respectful is an honor?

Here’s how I see it. The Poky mascot is akin to the Poky rock. It’s a symbol of pride and tradition when seniors and alumni paint it, but it’s also a purposeful target. Rival schools don’t often vandalize Poky buildings because they go for the rock. A mascot, like the rock, serves to be a source of pride but to also absorb attacks from rival schools.

Years after I graduated, I coached volleyball for Poky in the 90’s. It was easy to lead cheers of “Go Indians!” and view ourselves as warriors, but when I coached for Century in the early 2000’s, the language that came to mind in team huddles gave me great pause. Levying a war, albeit an athletic one, against “the Indians” didn’t sit well with me. 

We cannot simultaneously assert that the Indian mascot is an honor that represents Native Americans and their culture but say it’s not the culture or Native People presented to be a target for rival schools. We tease, poke fun and mock rival mascots. An individual Native person may tell me that they grasp the intended honor over resulting ridicule, but I am not comfortable treating an Indian mascot the way I would treat others mascots.

Our intended means of honor is not that anymore. The mascot is racist, offensive and harmful. So in the decision tree, we are left with, “do we care?”

Perhaps it’s my own discomfort that’s helped me to hear Native voices in recent years, or perhaps it’s the realization that this former “Loud Proud Poky Pep Band Member” needed to be quiet and humble to truly listen. It’s not Poky’s mascot that will continue to honor our Native American friends and neighbors, but rather it’s listening to them. If we aren’t listening, then one must question if honor is really our intent.

Poky High halftime show, 1989

 

The Rings

The Rings

Today is our 3^rd wedding anniversary. So many writing paths to ponder, but I woke up this morning thinking about our rings. 

I love the symbolism of our watches in this picture. No more waiting.

 I love our rings like I love us. We each picked out our own.

Mine was designed and made by local guy Doug Newcomb at the Goldsmith. Doug had been in a terrible mountain biking accident – after he finished my ring and before the wedding. He and his wife Kathy were able to attend, and I still choke up thinking about my whole experience with them.  For years I imagined having to get my wedding ring in someplace like Rainbowville, California because I couldn’t envision going into a local shop with my partner and picking out rings with comfort, ease and excitement. Ring shopping at the Goldsmith with Kathy and Doug was a gift from the get-go.

My ring design was inspired by the closet doors in my childhood home that my mom had painted. Those doors were inspired by the work of Dutch painter Piet Mondrian. There’s a bit of a Tetris flare, which I also like, because my job for the last 12 years can be likened to the game, but arranging semiconductor components on a chip.  I simply preferred silver.

My ring is from Idaho – just like me.

Jena’s ring came from James Avery.  From Wikipedia, “James Avery Artisan Jewelry is a private company that designs, manufactures, and sells jewelry, primarily Christian themed. The founder, James Avery, started the business in 1954 in Kerrville, Texas out of his mother-in-law's two-car garage with about $250 in capital.”    I think every girly-girl in Texas knows about James Avery.

Jena’s ring is from Texas – just like her.

 

As Jena grew up, James Avery jewelry was always a cherished gift from her mom. She used to get charms for her charm bracelet, but as she got older, it changed to necklaces, earrings and bracelets. Jena was drawn to her ring immediately.  It is three different bands connected together. We started to apply any symbolism after-the-fact.

She’s got 3 kids. We got married on the 3^rd. I joked about the Holy Trinity (which, considering my religious school upbringing and occasional Episcopal Church attendance, is not a sentence I just felt good writing, but hey – the Episcopalians are pretty chill.)  The church we go to when we go is called Trinity, and we feel comfortable there. Jokes aside, that, and the name, are significant. 

What a lovely doodle-fur backdrop.

Our ring-bearer was our 2 year old golden doodle Lynda Carter. We both adore this licky, nervous, not-so-well-behaved lil thing. She’s unpredictable, entertaining, and full of love.  Gee – like our marriage. Lynda Carter was the ideal choice -  to “ring” in our new years.   Cheers!

Lynda Carter did such a good job!

She may have thought the whole day was about her, but clearly this moment was.

A Couple Christmas Schemes from One Wise Woman

Published in the Idaho State Journal on Dec 26, 2018.

During a scant block of solitude this week, I put on a Pandora Christmas station, added a dash of eggnog to my coffee and settled in to wrap presents for the kids. I wrap like a kindergartner –with more jagged crumples than smooth creases and so much excitement I don’t imagine the recipient will notice the botched Scotch tape. Wrapping presents becomes a meditative exercise and as I find my Zen, I find myself recalling bits of Christmases past.

My mom did a magnificent job making Christmas magical when I was a kid. A couple of her specific schemes come to mind. 

Our tree topper was a plastic Tinkerbell-inspired angel in a crushed red velvet dress with gold cardboard wings. Her jeweled shoes were highlighted with a spritz of tinsel. Her name was Angel. When I was really little, Mom convinced me that Angel was barely hanging on atop the tree, and I needed to keep an eye on her so she didn’t fall. The most stoic moments of my life were at age three, sitting at the base of the tree amidst the colorful glow looking up and pleading, “Don’t fall, Angel. Don’t fall.” 

Who gets a three year old to be calm on Christmas Eve? And how? My mom was a wise woman.

My parents divorced when I was four, and although Christmas celebrations changed, Angel was a constant. When it was just Mom and me, it was clear who presents under the tree were for and from, but Mom added a touch of enchantment. She labeled the gift tags as though presents were from famous people or fictional characters. At first I received gifts from Mickey Mouse, Winnie the Pooh and Wonder Woman. As I got older and my interests and knowledge broadened, I’d see gifts from Eleanor Roosevelt, Robin Williams and Axl Rose.

Our Christmases never held extravagant or expensive gifts, so this element of wonder stayed with me. The creative labels brought more merriment and fantasy to the holiday, and it showed that Mom was tuned in to my expanding pursuits, that she knew me. Sometimes as much thought went into the labels as it did the gifts. Often, she’d give me hints. I got a Crayola Caddy from Vincent Van Gogh and a Walkman cassette player was a joint gift from Cindi Lauper and George Michael.  And I always got something from Angel.

I do this with the kids today. It’s fun to see them look for the gift tags rather than simply counting the presents or gauging their sizes and contents. The labels introduce a Christmas connection.  This year, they’re getting chocolates from Willy Wonka, a science experiment from Albert Einstein, and the oldest, who’s interested in law school, has gifts from Michelle Obama and Ruth Bader Ginsberg.  Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, Nikola Tesla and Abe Lincoln are also among this year’s gift-givers at our house.

The kids are too old to be tricked into tranquility over a tree topper four times their age, but after their mom and I got married and I explained the history of Angel, they welcomed this bit of my personal history into our family’s blend of holiday traditions. But sadly, there will be no presents from Angel this year.

During a decoration cleanup, our golden doodle Wiley Wayne chewed her beyond repair. I was devastated. As I was examining the depth of my disappointment, I was able to put it in context. My mom died a month after my 28^th Christmas, and Angel made it to my 44^th.  My tree topper spent more Christmases with me than my mother.

Hard to be mad at that face, but...

Just sadness

My wife’s heroic googling prowess found a tree topper on EBay almost identical to Angel. It was still in the vintage 1970’s box. She was afraid to give it to me and worried how I’d react. She knew that Angel couldn’t be replaced. Yet when I recall those still flashes of my childhood, the new tree topper’s wings were as shiny and her cheeks, as rosy as Angel’s when I first met her.  

We named the new tree topper Rosie because of those cheeks and in honor of Mom’s love of Rosie the Riveter and her “We Can Do It” motto.  Rosie’s dress is a deep gold where Angel’s was red, so this helps make Rosie uniquely ours.

As our family’s holiday traditions continue to mesh and evolve, Rosie is something, or rather, someone we have together.  I wonder what she will get everyone for Christmas this year.  

Rosie