Crushed

Published in the Idaho State Journal on September 12, 2014

Sometimes a coincidence will sneak up on you like a crush. Other times a coincidence can simply crush you.

This past week, I had a checkup for my allergies and asthma. I was diagnosed with both before Kindergarten and I used to keep tabs on my inhaler like my present day smart phone.  Lifelong, I’ve only had two asthma-induced ER visits. For the most part, mine is a mild case of asthma. Now I keep track of my phone better than my inhaler.

As I was scurrying to make my 8am appointment, I reached for my perfume. Or cologne. Heck. It’s supposed to be a gender-neutral scent, so I don’t know what it’s called. Whatever. This is so beside the point. As I reached for my foo-foo fragrance, I stopped. I recalled the many of the faceless patients in the office waiting rooms of appointments past. I didn’t want to further aggravate pulmonary conditions of anyone who might be on oxygen or in respiratory distress. I also didn’t want a lecture from the doctor about perfumes and allergies, but mostly it was worrying about others that led to my day of mere shower freshness.

As I completed my morning hair-spiking and tooth brushing—I didn’t floss because I don’t see the dentist for at least three months— I thought of my friend Dottie and a column I wrote last October called “I can wear perfume to church again.”

 

In that piece, I talked about this quintessential sweet little old lady in the congregation who had just moved away to Arizona. Dottie had been on oxygen, and when I realized that she would have her big, green tank with her each week, I quit wearing perfume to church so I wouldn’t exacerbate her difficulty breathing. Upon her leaving, I just couldn’t bring myself to spray a spritz so soon after her departure.

Since that writing last October, I received a flowery card from Dottie and a friend request from her on Facebook.  Our most significant exchange over the last year occurred after I posted a picture of my labradoodle Bob in his custom-made cow suit. She messaged a plea to explain the cow suits and my Cow Suit Saturday blog. After I explained that it’s about embracing whimsy and recording people’s reactions, we talked about how darned handsome Bob is. Even in his ridiculous cow suit, my dog Bob is the bomb.

With Dottie on my mind, my asthma appointment was pleasantly uneventful. I had the usual breathing tests where I exhale with force until my lungs are empty and I see how far I can move the digital needle. I’m less competitive than I used to be with the process, but I was still curious about my performance. I mean results. I still wheeze. I still need an inhaler and I’m still not getting rid of Bob or any of my other animal allergens because I’m stubborn and I love them.

Before I left, I got a breathing treatment and was all set for my day. When I went home at lunch to let Bob and the others out to potty, my phone dinged with an alert.

Dottie passed away.

Whooosh. And my lungs were empty again. I had known that she wasn’t doing well, but what a coincidence. I was just thinking about her. I was crushed.

One Sunday before Dottie moved away she was kneeling in the communion line ahead of me. She was getting out of her kneel to return to her seat, when I noticed her start to stumble. I happened to be the one standing there to prevent her fall and offer a little support. We were fast friends after that.

I won’t be wearing perfume to church this weekend, but by golly, I’m going to wear my cow suit. (Not to church!) Dottie got a kick out of my cow suit escapades.

Pocatello’s last fun run of their series is this weekend. The cows, some friends and I in cow suits, will be on the route for a commemorative Cow Suit Saturday in Dottie’s memory. We will yell and cheer for the runners and walkers and offer a little support. With my asthma under control, I ought to be entering the run, but I’d much rather cheer.  Run fast, Friends and if you’re aiming for a personal best, crush it.

The Curve-wrecker

The first week of classes is over, and so are my quiet dog-walks around Holt Arena.  Welcome back, ISU students. I’m excited to report that I’m one of you again. I’m enrolled in a professional writing class.

I remember students like me. They were older, wiser, and didn’t play intramural games at 10pm. They read the assignments, looked forward to discussion and didn’t wear sweats, flip-flops and ball caps to class. They didn’t care about “Thirsty Thursday” at the Rum Runner bar, and they wrecked the grading curve. I imagined being the curve-wrecker, but the first class adjusted my expectations like a rear-end collision.

When I entered the room at the new Rendezvous Center, a few students were already seated. And, yes, I know that the center was built in 2007 and is not necessarily “new”, but anything at ISU that wasn’t there in 1996 is “new” to me.  I know good students are supposed to sit in front, so I dragged my dress shoes up there.

As kids, excuse me, students filed into the room, I wondered where the men were. With only one male student in the midst, I was clearly not in engineering school any more. And as I anticipated, I was the oldest. By a generation. Maybe two.

The professor started going over the syllabus and introducing words and phrases foreign to me. I considered the only thing that might make this first class more uncomfortable would be if I’d have shown up in a cow suit. I let my mind wander to that hilarity but my focus was yanked back to the present with the silence that follows a question on day one. I don’t have to answer as many questions if I sit in the front, right?

We went around the room introducing each other, and one by one, I realized that I’m the only student with a degree, let alone a Master’s. I am also the only one without an English or writing focus. I felt like the GPS led me astray and I was sitting on the wrong side of the tracks.

The entire meeting was a fascinating example of the emotion and dynamics that can surface when one is a minority or in a new setting.  I have two degrees for crying out loud and a house and a career and a turtle who loves me. I write a column. I’ve been a professional for almost two decades, but when surrounded by these young, self-identified writers and math-loathers, I stuttered. I hesitated. I stifled my voice and felt small and insecure. I felt a shred of what other students, young and old all over town, felt last week.

It’ll get better though, and we’ll find our grooves.  I suppose when my nerves settle I might just be the class curve-wrecker, but I doubt it. I look forward to the class discussions, though, and rooting for whoever the curve-wrecker proves to be.

An Evening At Villano's

Published in the Idaho State Journal on August 31, 2014

I’m on a diet. Sort of. I have visions of last fall’s jeans, but haven’t quite visualized how I’m going to get back into them. I spent an inordinate amount of money on fruits, vegetables, and protein powder this week, and followed it up with a trip to Wednesday Farmer’s Market.  I took my two six and nine year old buddies that I write about now and then. They were eager to join me and I suspect it’s because they hoped for puddles in the parking lot after the day’s rain.

I procured more vegetables through the drizzle, and the boys asked if we could go to the new Villano’s on Main Street for dinner. They love to say it, or sing it rather, with a long lingering “lan” that rolls right into the “o”. I hesitated. Diet. Jeans. Pizza. Aromas. “Sure, Boys. Let’s go to Villaaano’s.”  I’ll have a salad.

The little bistro is only two blocks from the Old Town Pavilion, so we walked. Their eyes were focused on puddles and my nose was focused on Villano’s.  I could smell the Italian sauces half way and began the internal bargaining. Surely, the boys will need me to eat their crusts. Maybe just one slice. Maybe my own small pizza. And, maybe Holt Arena is open late and I could sneak in and run stairs for an hour afterward. I ordered a small salad and stared inappropriately at everyone else’s plates. I did have to step in and finish the crusts, so my eyes were eventually diverted to our own table.

The boys’ mom was running before-school errands in peace while we dined, and she called just as we got home. She found some snazzy lunch boxes on sale. The choices were black, blue and purple. The eldest’s favorite color these days is purple. Their mom asked me if she should (A) get him the purple one, (B) tell him the choices and let him choose what would most likely be purple, or (C) get him black or blue in hopes to prevent any teasing because she fears purple might be perceived as a girl’s color.

What? Purple? A girl’s color? Since when? I’m usually up to date on gender norms because I’ve been inadvertently breaking them since I was these kids’ ages, but really? I had no idea about the potential for purple or teasing.  Nonetheless, I suggested (B).  Let him choose.

As I listed his color choices, his shout of “PURPLE!” echoed through the house and scared the dogs.

When their mom got home with the canvas lunchboxes, she might as well have been Santa himself. The purple lover grabbed his new carrier and squeezed it in glee. He then said to us both, “And ya know, people might tease me because it’s purple, but I like purple, and I will just tell them that you shouldn’t tease people for that because you can like whatever color you like.” Okay then.

This little guy is as (un)prepared as any kid for the upcoming school year and the social challenges that will come. If you’re reading this and you have kids going to school, perhaps you could talk to them about not teasing others for the color of their lunchboxes. Or their haircuts. Or their clothes. Or their church. Or their lack of one. Or for any reason at all really.

I was teased constantly as a kid for all of those and more.  I realized young that I was going to get taunted for just about anything, so I decided to freely embrace the things that brought me joy. My mom was so good at encouraging me, and I saw that same kind of encouragement in this lunchbox delivery. Not all kids are this lucky.

I wouldn’t think so much dialogue could ensue around a lunchbox, but we all talked another 10 minutes or so about social dynamics of the third grade, mold prevention, meal possibilities, and perks of this particular design. When I unzipped it and showed him the extra compartment, he squealed, “For leftovers! Like pizza from Villano’s!”

Poor kid. He’s excited and equipped to face his peers with his purple lunchbox but has no idea that as long as I’m on a “diet” there will be no leftovers after an evening at Villano’s. 

Tuesdays for Mrs. Johnson

When I missed a serve on game point, my volleyball coach yelled. When I missed a free throw, my basketball coach yelled. When my mom noticed my first tattoo at age 20, she yelled. Teachers didn’t yell at me often, but I remember when one did.

On a fall day 29 years ago, teammates and I were loitering in the halls of Hawthorne Junior High before volleyball practice. Someone learned that lockers could be opened by wiggling them just right. In our pre-practice boredom, we tried it on the group closest to the gym and next to Mrs. Johnson’s room.

I’d heard legends in the halls of Mrs. Johnson. She scared me. I avoided passing her between classes, and I cautiously looked at my schedule each semester fearing I’d be sentenced to her English class.

While we fiddled with lockers, we didn’t realize Mrs. Johnson was in her room. She heard our racket, surfaced like a snake and snarled, “what do you think you are doing?”

We weren't stealing. We were snooping and trying to beat the system. I didn’t think we were in the wrong, so I tried some sarcasm and humor with Mrs. Johnson—one of the dumber moves of my youth. She shook her finger and shouted a string of rhetorical questions as she slid toward me. I wanted my mommy.

When I began attending a new church a few years ago, I noticed Mrs. Johnson sitting toward the front. The sight of her slight build and gray hair still triggered terror in my gut. The fear of God paled in comparison to my teenage fear of Mrs. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson has got to be in her 80’s by now. I worry that although I’ve offered a few reminiscing comments at coffee hours, she really wouldn’t grasp how grateful I am for that confrontation years ago.She imparted that although what I was doing may not have been punishable by law, my time could be better spent. Those face to face seconds forced me to be accountable for my actions. It didn’t matter what others were doing. It mattered what I was doing.  She could have ignored us and kept on grading, but she didn’t. She paid attention. It took me longer than I’d like to admit that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t mean; I was wrong.

Today when she talks about her years teaching, Mrs. Johnson exudes a kindness and love of people that illustrate how deeply she loves the kids she taught, praised and scolded. Recently she told me that she looks forward to Tuesdays because both American Falls Mayor Marc Beitia and I are former Hawthorne students and she loves to see us all grown up and involved in our communities. No pressure here, Mayor, but Mrs. Johnson reads (and loves) your every word.

Tuesdays are about to get a little makeover for Mrs. Johnson as my friend Susie Matsuura is going to share this weekly space with me. Susie isn’t a former Hawthorne Hawk, but she is a lifelong Idahoan with a great sense of humor and humanity who is driven by kindness and her sense of right. Susie is a lot like Mrs. Johnson, and I look forward to reading what she writes.

Steve and the Magic Binki

If you listen closely, you can hear whines and groans throughout the nation as summer vacation draws to a close and the first day of school looms.  I’m writing this week from the Oregon Coast on an end of summer trip with a friend and her three kids. The long hours in the car called for the “binki.”

I learned about the binki on a camping trip years ago with 17 of my closest friends. The weekend rules were simple.  Chip in money for food. Take a turn cooking and cleaning up.  Have fun. No whining. If you whined, you had to wear a pacifier on a string until you caught someone else whining. 

Remembering the magic of that binki, I procured one for our Oregon trip. The 14 year old girl made it the entire first day including nine and a half hours in the car without a single whine. She has two wriggly, squirrelly, and gross (cute) little brothers and not a whiney peep. The binki is magic.

The binki comes with rules. No poking or taunting anyone to rid yourself of the binki. You may state that you are cold or hungry or that a sibling is bothering you, but if your tone is questionable, the group will vote. The driver (me) may whine or curse freely from behind the wheel due to the insensitivity or ignorance of other drivers.  You do not have to wear it while swimming or sleeping, but if you end the day with it, you begin the next with it. If you refuse to wear the binki or throw a tantrum when caught whining, you lose access to all electronic devices for the remainder of the day.

I told the kids a story about Officer Steve Williams. Steve was a Pocatello police officer and champion body builder when he was tragically killed in a boating accident nine years ago. During one of his turns with the binki on that camping trip, a county sheriff visited our campsite. Steve was the first to rise from afternoon campfire circle and approach the vehicle. His denim shorts, tight tank top and chiseled muscles accentuated his swagger that surfaced with the appearance of a fellow officer.  Steve forgot he was wearing the bikini and our giggles and gasps didn’t even alert him.

Steve was one of the most dignified and proud people I’ve ever met. If HE could wear the binki, WE could wear the binki. A couple times early on, I exaggerated a whine to model owning up, laughing at myself, recognizing when I could change my attitude, and accepting consequences, but I’ve also been caught in plenty legitimate whines.

I wore the darn thing while I checked into a motel, got gas, asked for directions and picked up take out. Everyone whines sometimes, but our little vacation troop whined a whole lot less this week. Hopefully it’ll sustain until we return home and the kids remember summer vacation is almost over. What? Summer is almost over? Are you serious? But, but, but… Oh, give me the binki.

The Three-legged Step Turtle

My box turtle Myrtle turned 31 last week. I talk about Myrtle all the time, but I’ve also got another turtle whose story should be told. His name is Tripod. He’s missing a hind foot.

Tripod was a gift from my friend and former coach Alice Heberlein in about 1998. I don’t even remember the exact date or year, and as someone who remembers all sorts of birthdays, I feel terrible about that. I should feel terrible! What kind of mom am I?  I’ve grown up all my life hearing jokes and thin insults about being the red headed step child, but in my house it’s more like the three-legged step turtle.

I tried to track down the origins of the phrase “red headed step child” but the internet wasn’t all that helpful.  The expression is used to indicate a person or thing that is neglected, unwanted, or mistreated. Tripod is certainly none of those, but in all my talks of Myrtle, he might appear to be.

Wanting to cheer me up after a losing season, Coach Heberlein handed me a paper bag after a junior varsity volleyball tournament. I was the JV coach, and our final record was 4-21. I was a good player, but as far as coaching goes, the wins were scarce. My players had fun (I think), and they learned about teamwork, work ethic, and sportsmanship when you lose, but we didn’t get many lessons in sportsmanship when you win.

When the paper bag started to wiggle, I was so confused.  So were the girls and giggles ensued as I reached in and pulled out a wriggling reptile. We should probably have a quick lesson on how giving pets to someone may not be the best idea, especially a turtle, because with one at 31 and the other now 16 or 17 years old, the recipient is in for quite a commitment. Luckily Tripod has been a wonderful, spunky addition to the family.

Every year when August hits, I can’t help but recall my years in volleyball as a player, a coach and as a brand new mom to Tripod. Even though football is historically the sports powerhouse and fall is the season of cross country, soccer, and high school swimming, all of these sports were like a three legged step turtle to me.

As tryouts and seasons begin, I want to wish all athletes—aspiring and seasoned— in all sports the best of luck. We all know who won that race between the rabbit  and the turtle. 

A Landscape with Hope

I’m fired up. I don’t usually write when I feel like this, so we’ll see how it goes. I’ll begin by offering thanks for the backspace and my bicycle.

I attended a test screening of “Add the Words” last Friday at the ISU theater.  The documentary chronicles protesters during the 2014 Idaho Legislature who want the words “sexual orientation and gender identity” added to the Idaho Human Rights Act. I went in to the show skeptical and feeling like I needed to see the perspective portrayed. I agree with the protesters that those words should be added. I admire their grit, but I’m not convinced that their actions weren’t more detrimental than helpful.  I went to the show in hopes of seeing behind the scenes material to convince me the continuing protests were a good idea.

A year and a half ago when I spoke as a member of the LGBT community at a Pocatello City Council, my reasons were twofold. I wanted to share my experiences of negative treatment and fear to offer a personal qualitative piece of data supporting non-discrimination legislation, but I also wanted to talk about how freakin’ great my life has been.  Cue Pharrell Williams’ jazzy, upbeat number one hit, “It might seem crazy what I'm about to say…”  I’ve grown up in south east Idaho and I’m happy!

As stories pour into the media and statehouses about the struggles and discrimination that LGBT people have faced, it’s paramount, for teens and adolescents especially, that accounts of hope and happiness appear as well. The “Add the Words” movie was certainly more focused on struggles and not about hope.  

The movie showed how the Idaho legislature has refused a hearing—just a hearing—and in essence is silencing hundreds of Idaho families whose voices deserve to be heard. These families and voices have been refused for eight years now.

While we call on legislators to give LGBT youth hope in the passing of laws, we’ve got to do our part to contribute to a landscape of hope. At the conclusion of the film, a number of people offered comments.  Someone on stage said that School District 25 doesn’t support gay/straight alliances (GSAs) and we were urged to call the superintendent.

I doubted this was true. From my seat in the theater, I messaged a friend who teaches U.S. Government at Highland High School. Pamela Fleischmann Peck ran the Human Rights club at HHS a couple years ago, but due to lack of student interest, the club became inactive.  She is more than willing to advise and resurrect the group. The infrastructure is there at Highland and only needs student interest to develop.

I also texted Irving Middle School principal Tonya Wilkes. She shrieked (as one possibly could via text) that clubs are absolutely allowed. She added that district administrators have recently gone through anti discrimination professional development and training. Central to this is recognizing and addressing issues like bullying, depression, and isolation encountered by LGBT youth or others in underrepresented economic, religious and ethnic groups.

I wanted a little more backbone than friend-to-friend chats on this, so I did call the School District 25 Office. I asked flat out: Are GSA clubs prohibited?  I got a clear cut, “No. We do not oppose the creation of a gay/straight alliance club.”

I learned that the creation of any school group is student-driven. If students want a club, the school and District support that. Before a group can be created, the school’s administration must find an adult volunteer within the school to be an advisor. Once one is found, the advisor will help the group get organized, define their intended purpose and plan activities to support their purpose. A GSA would be supported and run just like other school clubs.

Simply put, this public statement after the movie was inaccurate.

One of the last speakers after the film called for LGBT people to speak up. I agree that talking is important, but so is listening. In the midst of so much speaking up, we may not hear about changes that are happening, what school districts, teachers and allies are doing, and what lawmakers or other LGBT people are accomplishing on behalf of equal rights. 

There is more to be done. There will always be more to be done, but in not acknowledging or celebrating little victories and progress, I fear that hope can be lost. I hope that Idaho lawmakers will hold a hearing on adding the words next session and fewer protests arise because I’m still not convinced that halting all other legislative progress is a good idea.  My experience in south east Idaho tells me there is happiness and hope to be had. Kids should know that.