Caution, Hope and Poky Pride

Published in the Idaho State Journal on November 25, 2018

 

Last Friday the Pocatello High School Human Rights and Art Clubs painted the rock in front of the school. Using six different cans of paint, they transformed the rock into a rainbow.  This was a representation of the LGBT pride flag and a peace flag. I am a co-advisor for the Human Rights Club, but I missed the last few meetings due to my day job. I didn’t know about the rock painting until I received a picture that afternoon. There were 11 beaming smiles behind the same rock I painted more than 25 years ago when I was a student at Poky High.

After work, I drove to the school to photograph the rock on its own. I went to bed Friday night proud of those kids for being such an active and visible part of their student body and thrilled that the administration and student council supported their efforts. Sixteen year old me never would have imagined.

On Saturday morning, my friend and former classmate Courtney Fisher messaged me. Courtney is also the spokesperson for Pocatello Chubbuck School District 25.  “Did you see on Facebook that the rock was vandalized last night?”  I hoped it was good ole Highland or Century rivalry related, but my gut knew it wasn’t. 

Someone spray painted “fag flag” on the front.  

I immediately worried about the students.  I wanted to fix it before they found out. I didn’t want them to be upset by the words or know their work was ruined.  I also didn’t want them to retaliate out of hurt and anger. Feelings of hurt and anger are such a natural part of our human existence, and as advisors it was now on us to discuss healthy coping strategies and assist students as they processed these feelings. 

When I was a junior at Poky and ran for student body president, art teacher and legend Bob Beason drew a caricature of me for campaign posters.  Someone scribbled male genitalia on a few along with that same slur. My reaction then was similar. I was sad that someone marred Mr. Beason’s work, and I didn’t want him to find out. 

I was not out in high school, but apparently my mullet was. 

An image of the rock with the graffiti hit Facebook before the school district’s maintenance crew could cover it. At the time of this writing, people are still sharing the picture with the slur along with commentary about their disgust, anger, and hurt.  There’s no way to determine if the vandal was bored, intending to cause fear, expressing true hatred or an LGBT individual seeking to garner attention. My thought is that this was likely done out of adolescent mischief and that the offender is not fully aware of the hate and hurt that F-word carries. Regardless, the tagging of the Poky rock last weekend stung the LGBT community, myself included.

Every time the image containing the slur was shared on social media, so was the ignorance and ill will.  Friends and strangers expressed that people should be aware this language is still used and that hate still exists. There’s a fine line between spreading awareness and spreading hate. 

It is incumbent upon us as LGBT individuals that while we are spreading awareness of our struggles or coping with them through public displays and commentary on social media, that we are also spreading hope. When we use one breath to tell law makers, law enforcement and fellow citizens that hate and discrimination exist, we must use the next breath to encourage others like us to keep living and loving. 

I’ve dealt with being called a “fag” for 30+ years.  I don’t like it, and it breaks my heart when I see people wounded by the word. It can make me afraid of what other acts might follow, but I’ve learned to live with caution, not fear.

As the image made its way across social media, people saw and felt the slur, but they didn’t see and feel the joy of the kids who painted the rock together.  For the first time (that I’m aware of), an element of that longtime tradition celebrated and recognized a population of students who’ve always been there but often felt like they needed to live in the shadows. The can’t-miss rainbow at the entrance of Poky High wasn’t a political statement; it was a testament to the school motto “PHS: Where everybody is somebody.” 

Two advisors repainted the rainbow on Saturday. It was tagged again Sunday night and another art teacher restored it Monday morning. She added the words “Be Kind.”  Soon the rock will go back to red and blue, but for a few days it’s been a colorful display of everything the Pocatello High School rock represents – bold, enduring and resilient Poky Pride.  

The Second One - 1,000 Words

She sent me this pic while I was at work on Friday. This is the dress she wore when she married me two years ago today.  A thousand words for sure.

We picked our wedding date (9/3) because we both love Idaho’s Septembers,  but also because the numbers of the day have been significant in our lives. At the top of the list, nine was my volleyball number and she’s got three kids. Ahem. We’ve got three kids. 

She was trying the dress on Friday because we planned to wear them last night at our celebratory dinner. We’ve road tripped this weekend to visit her oldest daughter who’s begun her freshman year at college. When we rolled into Boise last night however, we were beat from the long, twisting drive from Moscow.  We’re hoping to feel like going out tonight back home in Poky.

Back to the picture… 

The dress. She found it in the Dallas airport months before the date when she went back home to visit her ailing grandmother. Our wedding and favorite colors are purple and green, so this was simply perfect. Now every time the boys visit their grandparents, the oldest one sends her pictures from that dress shop in the airport showing us his favorite patterns with commentary.

Her legs. My wife has some damn beautiful calves. A piece of advice I got for our wedding day was to notice a few “snapshots” and save them in my mind. We got married on our favorite trail system in Pocatello and when we were walking toward the preacher (her brother), I noticed the dress flowing over her shiny, strong calves as we walked on the trail. Gulp. Now when we hike, that image often resurfaces. 

Her feet.  She has a tattoo on her right foot that says “I'm strong & powerful.” Indeed.

 

The bottom of the mirror.  Our sweet doodle Wiley Wayne did that while we were on a vacation at some point over the last two years. We saw Wiley Wayne go by on our Facebook feeds while we were on our honeymoon in Sun Valley. He’d been returned to the breeder who we got our other dog from because “he was defective.”  That family had eight kids with five under five. WILEY WAYNE WASN’T DEFECTIVE!  Neither one of us mentioned seeing the puppy. We both silently kept thinking about him and revisiting his pictures. When one of us casually mentioned, “So, did you see Krystle’s puppy?”  It was over.  Wiley Wayne is our honeymoon baby. It’s a $14 mirror and we’ve not replaced it because (a) he’ll likely do it again, (b) we’d rather spend the money on other things, and (c) clearly, the mirror still works just fine.

The lime green shoe in the back. That’s my latest pair of gym/running shoes. I’ve been a little more regular with the gym since school started and I’ve renewed my gym membership for the semester at ISU, but our hectic lives haven’t helped me make it a habit yet again. That lone shoe is me not giving up on that 6-pack – and her not caring one way or the other.

The wooden chair arm. She refinished the wood on that chair at some point, and it keeps floating around the house while we try to find a place for it.  It’s currently her clothes-catcher by Wiley’s mirror. 

The flat dog bed. We got a cheap CostCo memory foam bed for Alli, the 13 year old black lab that came with her. She doesn’t use the bed very often, but we keep it for her in front of the vent for cool air in the summer and warm air in the winter.  Alli’s been coughing lately and her legs are starting to give out.  That bed probably won’t be in our room too much longer. 

The corner of the bed spread. It took us a while to find a bed spread we both loved. We should have bought three of them. I surprised her for Christmas by painting two of our walls that teal color in the print.

The white walls.  The color is Sherwin Williams Creative White. SW1911.  It used to be a Columbia Paint color (8620) before Sherwin Williams bought Columbia.  I’ve painted four different houses that color—including my mom’s when she was away one weekend for a work conference. A bunch of my friends at the time helped me surprise her because I had to do it while she was gone so her emphysema wouldn’t be enflamed with the fumes.   The fresh paint brightened my childhood home and made selling the house easier when she died not long after. Creative White is crisp and clean and goes wonderfully with accent walls of any color. 

The wood dresser.  After mom died, I used some of her life insurance money to buy bedroom furniture. That piece of furniture is one of the most grown-up and serious things in the house. (Third drawer up holds my emergency clown nose and all sorts of other whimsical junk though.)

The wood floors. I don’t love having a wood floor in the bed room. I prefer to have my feet sink in to plush carpet when I roll out of bed, but with three dogs and four cats, we need something easy to clean.  The wood needs to be refinished   It’ll probably happen after the kids are out of college.  And after we get a new mirror. 

Her hands. One of the gifts of being gay is the deep gratitude and intense thrill every time I hold one of those hands. In public, it entails scanning our environment and assessing verbal and physical threats. If you’ve ever seen us hold hands, you’ve gotten to experience me experiencing that gratitude and that thrill. One of my favorite song lyrics by Andrew McMahon and the Wilderness is, “For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you.”  Yep.

Call it what it is - Take II

This appeared in the Idaho State Journal in April of 2017. I continue to see media outlets making this terrible mistake, so I'm publishing it again.

 

An Associated Press story out of Sandpoint, Idaho appeared in the Friday March 24, 2017 edition of the Idaho State Journal. The headline read:

“Teacher accused of having sex with student heads to trial”

She was 46 at the time. The victim was 16. This is not a case of two people “having sex.” As the article later says, she was charged with sexual battery of a minor between the ages of 16 and 17.

An October of 2016 tagline in the Idaho State Journal read, “Ex-Blackfoot soccer coach sentenced for sexual relationship with underage player.” I’m not numb to the content of these stories, but here I’m choosing to address the journalistic language.  A “sexual relationship”?  That word choice implies consent when the victim, who was 13 at the time, wasn’t of legal age to give it.   These cases and their victims deserve for these incidents to be reported with accurate and appropriate language.

Call it what it is!

Perhaps it's because my mother was a child protection worker or perhaps it's because I’ve grown up to be an intelligent and reasonable person who thinks any kind of sexual misconduct like this should never, not ever, be minimized or mischaracterized. Misconduct. Battery. Abuse. Rape. Taglines and phrases like "having a sexual relationship" or "the coach and student had an affair" infuriate me almost as much as the offense itself. 

I’m not a survivor of child sexual abuse, but my childhood was overwhelmed by it. I was guilted into gratitude in checkout lines when I’d ask for a candy bar and the “no” was couched in a reminder of kids who had it worse. As a fourth-grader, I accompanied Mom on trips to transport siblings from foster homes to supervised visits with their biological parents. I waited in hospital waiting rooms while rape kits were performed on children. Never tall enough to reach the TV, I was often stuck watching grown up shows. I was stuck in a grown up show. 

One night when I was in college and home doing laundry, my mom got a phone call out of the blue from a man who had been in her caseload as a preteen. He called from out of state to ask where he could get help. He realized he was starting to engage in the same type of emotional and physical abuse with his son that his biological father had with him. Through the course of their conversation, he told my mom about sexual abuse he suffered during his adolescence from his foster and later adoptive father. After his biological father had been so terribly physically abusive, the young man was confused and uncertain about boundaries and what a healthy love looks like, so he never told anyone. He hadn’t intended to share his accounts of sexual abuse that night, but that’s where their conversation went. Mom could scarcely summon words to direct him while she replayed her unwitting interactions years ago with the abuser. He seemed like a nice man.

It doesn’t take a PhD in counseling or psychology to hear me talk about my window to child sexual abuse and watching it take its toll on my mom to realize that my disdain for predators, abuse and inaccurate reporting isn’t only about the victims.  It’s also about the professionals (read: moms) working to uncover, stop, prosecute, and counsel after the abuse. A vigilant village is needed to combat the myriad of factors that can contribute to cycles of misconduct, battery and abuse. 

Whenever I see online postings from media outlets with sketchy language about criminal sexual conduct, I leave a comment. After the October story about the soccer coach and my subsequent plea to not refer to the incidents as a “sexual relationship”, I got a message from a childhood friend. They disclosed that they experienced sexual abuse as a child from an esteemed authority figure and, after years of silence, had only recently been able to seek counseling and experience healing. They appreciated my voice.

When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, people like my friend often feel victimized all over again.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, we risk becoming desensitized to the seriousness and prevalence of it. Society loses a grasp of consent. In cases like that of the culinary teacher and ex-soccer coach, accurate language is also critical because it highlights that sexual predators aren’t just scary men lurking in dark alleys. They can be coaches, teachers, church leaders, relatives, business professionals, politicians… The list goes on. Anyone of any gender can be guilty. 

The first step in stopping sexual violence and abuse is recognizing it when it happens, and we can’t do that until we call it what it is.

The Heroes in our Boys’ Room

This is the weekend I’ve either been dreading or awaiting since February of 1979. Fans of Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman TV series have wondered if Hollywood would be crazy enough to compete with the disco-era TV show with a motion picture. Turns out, they are. This summer’s Wonder Woman, Gal Gadot, has some big, red boots to fill.

At the time of this writing, I’ve purchased our tickets and am more cautious than excited. One of my stepsons has a birthday next week, so I asked if he’d like to see the movie as part of the festivities. Historically a Transformers movie or the latest Ninja Turtle installment has been a hallmark of his birthday weekend, so Wonder Woman seemed like a natural action-packed pick. He loves heroes and villains and action and adventure, but prefers Star Wars to the Amazon Princess, so I’m skeptical. Will he like the movie? Will I like the movie? Our birthday weekend plan is a risky one.

Our two year old golden doodle is named Lynda Carter and we have a Wonder Woman-themed laundry room. An autographed picture of Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman is above the dryer; an original series poster from eBay is above the drying rack; and a book case full of collectibles greets guests to the room because everyone gets a tour of the best laundry room ever when they visit. A brilliant four-foot yellow “WW” logo sits atop a cherry-red wall while another wall showcases stark white stars scattered across a bold blue. Laundry has never been so fun.

The 22 seconds that nothing was on top of the washer or dryer

A couple Christmases ago, the grandparents sent the two boys 12-inch metal letters covered with comic book super heroes that spelled out each of their names. We have an older home and their bedroom has two small closets. Their hero-clad names fit perfectly above each closet door, and in a shared room, this is a great way to make each boy feel like they have their own celebrated personal space.

The grandparents also gave us a Wonder Woman light switch cover for our laundry room. Sadly we already had one (of course we did!) so it sat in the junk drawer for a couple months until a rainy day left me nothing to do but organize. As I rearranged screwdrivers, notepads, tape measures and cat treats, I felt guilt and sadness seeing the colorful cover not living to its full potential. Then it hit me. Why don’t I put it in the boys’ room? They’ve got super heroes in there already. Perfect.

I hate to admit this, but almost immediately I second-guessed putting this female superhero switch plate in their room because they’re boys. I, Billie Johnson, second-guessed this due to my own hint of bias about gender roles and influences.

The hallway junk drawer is seven steps to their bedroom. With a screwdriver in one hand and Wonder Woman in the other, those steps held some of the greatest internal debate that I’ve had for a long time.

Am I sexist? Am I a feminist? What does it mean to be either of those? Should I ask the boys first if they’d like a new switch plate? Will they even recognize the differing gender from the heroes in the letters of their names? Wait—can Wonder Woman be a “hero” or am I still bound to “heroine”?

This silly little switch plate led to an unexpected exploration of my subconscious gender bias.

I swapped out their plain, white cover and decided to see if they said anything upon return from their dad’s house. Nothing came up for a couple days, so I casually asked if they noticed anything new in their room. After some prodding they finally said, “Oh that. Yeah. It’s cool.” 

Wonder Woman fits right in with the boys--and Bat Girl.

Nothing about how excited or disgusted they were. Nothing about there being a girl in their room. I questioned if I had made a big deal in my mind out of nothing, but I don’t think I had.

Whether we guide or simply allow our kids’ room décor, all sorts of messages are sent right along with the movies they see. We want our boys to recognize the strength and power in women in terms of treating them as equals and with respect. We also want them to know that they can lean on women and count on them right along with the men in their lives.

I counted on Wonder Woman as a kid and that’s led to a family attendance at the Wonder Woman premier this weekend and including her among the heroes in our boys’ room. I hope they want a movie poster, but I’m not going to push it. It is their room after all.