The Drop-off Line

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on March 28, 1991.

This month marks the one year anniversary of our abrupt shift to working from home and online learning. The shut-down. Memories appear in snippets. My new home office. The kids’ new workspaces. My new 5 a.m. alarm to work before the kids wake. A new shopping routine. New food storage space in the basement. New masks. So much “new” that is a testament - newer isn’t better.

When the kids returned to school in the hybrid model last fall, our boys had in-person learning on Tuesdays and Fridays. The youngest’s school policy is that students not be dropped off before 7:45 a.m. because they will be unsupervised on the playground. We are stalwart 7:45-ers because I want to avoid the drop-off line and get going on my workday.

One day last fall, I was taking my time getting the kids out the door because I had a wave of productivity that morning and wasn’t feeling rushed. While fixing my to-go mug, I noticed our seventh grader with his backpack over the bulk of his coat, sitting at the kitchen table looking miserable. I asked what was wrong. With sad eyes and a sadder tone he said, “I’m missing out on time with my friends.” As his words sunk in, so did my regret.

The early drop-offs had become a lifeline. After months of no contact with his friends, that early morning time on the playground for two days a week brought him a joy and sense of connection that he’d been missing. I’ve felt the parental pangs of not being able to do enough for the kids during this pandemic, but getting him to school at 7:45 a.m. so he could have more time with friends was something I could do.

From that day on – through earlier wakeups, breakfast planning, easier lunch assembly and blazing over the Benton Street Overpass on occasion—I ensured he had that morning time with friends. Our routine allowed me to ease in to the parking lot and pull right up to the school. We exchanged our “I love yous” and “have a great days” before the drop-off line could form, and he exited the vehicle smoothly with smiles all around.

One day just before spring break, I was late. Bogged down by the memories of a year ago, I was slow-moving and caught myself processing it all. The smells in the air and the lighting in the sky brought it all back. I apologized on the way to school and explained my struggle. With maturity and grace, the seventh grader navigated his disappointment in me with his eager anticipation to play football with friends.

Because we were later, we hit the drop-off line at its peak. The drop-off line elicits emotions in me stretching from rage to empathy. I’m either in a hurry and impatient with people’s lollygagging or I enjoy sharing waves and smiles with familiar faces. When a family in front of us is chatting in the car while holding up the entire line, I either label them the most self-centered humans on earth or I imagine their kids having a rough morning and sincerely smile at them being coaxed out of the car. When I have to wait for more than seconds in the drop-off line, I could either write a stand-up routine or a anger-fueled manifesto that would land me on an FBI watch-list. There is no in-between.

As we stalled to a standstill in the drop-off line this week, I had time to watch. Parents followed the rules. Parents broke the rules. Kids scurried. Kids dawdled. Cars sped. Cars crawled. There was as much variation in peoples’ behaviors as there was in my head.

I wish the author(s) of the recent ISJ Editorial “No Time for a Victory Lap” could see what I was seeing. That editorial focused on all of the things that School District 25 officials need to do in the wake of the failed recall effort, and not on what we as a community need to do. The drop-off line is a great example. It’s all up to the parents and students to move things forward.

Calls for unity often focus on what the other party can do, but for thoughtful dialogue to happen, introspection is needed by all sides. Regarding the hot-button issues of the past few years involving school boundaries, the Indians mascot and pandemic-related decisions, every single one of us – myself included - could have done more listening, apologizing, back-spacing, researching, mediating, reconciling, showing up, and then listening some more.  

The quality of a school district does not only rely only on the leaders in charge but also the constituents engaged. The drop-off line is as good as any indicator out there. As we strive to move forward, Parents, we’ve got some work to do.

 

Lunch with Janie

 Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on March 7, 2021.

I checked my old emails to verify. I had lunch with Janie Gebhardt on May 29, 2017. It was Memorial Day almost four years ago. Janie had won the election to retain her seat on the School District 25 Board of Trustees two weeks prior. She is now facing a recall vote on Tuesday, and I think the voters – and Janie – deserve to have our lunch shared with a wider audience.

I contacted Janie to talk about my volunteer work in the high schools. At a minimum, I wanted someone on the school board to know what I was working on and my vision for the future. The “shoot for the moon” goal was to ask Janie if she thought I could ask the school board to help fund the work I was doing and if she would support me.  To be clear here, I was not asking Janie for anything other than her opinion and to consider talking to the rest of the board with me.  We both paid for our own meals.

When I first met Janie in the early 2000’s, she was the pastor at the United Church of Christ and involved in the Portneuf Valley Interfaith Fellowship (PVIF). The PVIF website explains: We are a diverse group of faith communities working together to better the community for the common good, both locally and globally. We recognize our diversity and encourage interfaith dialogue and respect.

I came to respect many of our local faith leaders for their efforts toward unity and understanding, and Janie was a huge part of this. As I saw her appreciation for diversity showcased in public discourse, she remained in my field of vision.

During the winter of 2014, a local sophomore, who had recently come out as gay, died by suicide. I was a weekly columnist for the Idaho State Journal at the time and had written a number of columns discussing my perspective as an Idaho-loving gay person who’s been fearful at times, experienced discrimination, but still wakes up finding things to love about our world. A teacher, who was struggling with the loss of her student and wondering how to support others in her classes, had seen some of my columns. She tracked me down on social media and asked if I would help her provide an avenue of support for gay, transgender and questioning students through a gay-straight alliance (GSA) club.  I had no idea how to go about this, and wasn’t convinced that it would be a good idea, but something was needed as more and more kids in our community are questioning their identities and coming out sooner.

I started volunteering with a high school GSA in the 2015-2016 school year.  We wanted a place to meet and to invite kids from other schools, so we brainstormed. When I played JV basketball, it was impossible for coaches to schedule gym time, so we practiced at a local church. Would that work here? I called Janie and asked if we could use the UCC space right behind Poky that included a kitchen and a gym to host kids each week. She not only let us use the building for free but also left books on my porch about how to organize activities with youth.

The details of my 2017 lunch discussion with Janie aren’t as important as the fact that after 90 minutes together, where we shared similar opinions, she said “no.”

I’m not sure if my point is to illustrate that Janie Gebhardt has made recommendations in her role on the school board that would side with a popular public opinion and conflict with her own (and that of a friend), or if my point is to somewhat self-righteously highlight that when I was told “no” by a member of the school board, I didn’t rush to claims that I wasn’t listened to and insist she be recalled.

Hearing “no” made me want to work even harder to do what I am doing and find other ways to get the job done. I’ve helped write grants, continued to brainstorm and network with teachers and just this week took seven pizzas to one of our high schools because kids are now able to meet again.  

I’ve seen a number of billboards supporting the recall and have had many discussions on social media.  I can’t help but think - the time and money spent on the organizing, arguing, planning and plotting could have been spent getting volunteer background checks, writing grants, brainstorming with teachers, and having pizza delivered to kids.

I don’t believe Janie has done anything to warrant a recall. I believe she does her best to parse the data in front of her and utilize her years of experience to make decisions. Recall elections aren’t in place to remove people with good intentions who make unpopular decisions. That’s what a regular election in November is for.

 

Hamburger Helper helping me Through

Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on March 7, 2021.

I made Hamburger Helper for dinner last Tuesday. To make it “healthy”, I used lean ground turkey and mixed in a can of green beans. Our boys got a protein, carb, and vegetable, and I called it a midweek victory. Low-energy Hamburger Helper will be as much a staple in our boys’ youth as it was in mine.

At some point in my tween years, Mom sat me down to talk about “interdependence.” It was a conversation framed around her need for my help. She was a single parent and her job was changing significantly. She took on the role as the only child protection social worker in Idaho’s four southeastern counties. This would have her dropping me off at school well before 8 a.m. and driving to Caribou, Oneida, Bear Lake or Franklin county each day. She also had to cover southern Bannock County and the communities in the Marsh Valley school district including Lava Hot Springs, Downey and Arimo.

She asked me to help more with cooking, cleaning and generally taking care of my own needs with homework and getting home from school.  While this was a normal age for an increase in responsibilities and contributions to the household, the shift in our small family was abrupt and without wiggle room. Our years of interdependence were upon us.

A couple nights a week, dinner was my job, and Hamburger Helper was my go-to. I’d scurry home at dusk after practice and start browning the hamburger. The stewed casserole would be warming on the stove when Mom got home, and we’d eat together and talk about our days.

I can still remember names and cases and atrocities that children suffered that Mom helped with. Hamburger Helper commercials at the time said “help your hamburger, help her,” and I took it to heart. She had to help a lot of children and families, and in assuming more responsibilities at home, I was helping, too.

Mom wasn’t working alone in Idaho’s southeastern counties. She worked with teachers, school administrators, law enforcement and school boards. I can still hear her say things like, “I met a new friend today who is a principal in Soda Springs” or “the sheriff in Preston” or “the chair of the Marsh Valley School Board.” She worked with all of these people to conduct investigations, bring perpetrators to justice and educate communities about child abuse and neglect. As soon as she worked with a fellow civil servant, she spoke of them as her friends.

It was during my impressionable youth, I came to grasp that social workers, teachers, principals, law enforcement - any public servant really - sees things that the average person does not. My middle school friends were mad once when a classmate got an extension on an assignment; I noticed the cigarette burns on the back of his neck. Peers teased a classmate because she smelled bad; I saw her walk into the counselor’s office where one of Mom’s “friends” was waiting to talk with her. I knew there was even more going on around me beneath the surface that I didn’t know, and that truth remains today.

Our community is in the middle of a recall effort of three school board members. The central claim of recall proponents is that the school board hasn’t listened to the public – that they are not “serving the public.” As a member of the public, I’m here to say that I feel adequately served by this board.  I am not in agreement with every decision or even every decision-making process they’ve undertaken, but I know the public they serve is vast, and information comes at them from many perspectives. The school board is privy to personal stories of individual students, teachers, and subject matter experts that I am not, and there are state and federal laws they must adhere to that I’ve never even heard of. 

This recall effort isn’t helpful, and in fact it’s detracting people from their jobs at hand. A recall isn’t going reduce the COVID-19 numbers to ensure kids stay in school. The public must help with that. A recall isn’t going to get my kid to turn in his math assignment on time. I have to help with that. While still firmly in a pandemic, a recall isn’t going to ease our children’s mental health woes, but as parents, we must work together to do that.

I view my relationship with all public servants, including the school board, as one of interdependence. Before I consider how they should be helping me, I consider how I could be helping them, and right now I’m probably most helpful in encouraging empathy and understanding all around while taking care of myself and my family. And, good ole easy-peasy Hamburger Helper is helping with that.

Because of Mrs. Atkinson

Published in the Idaho State Journal on February 21, 2021.

A couple weeks ago, my friend Cori from junior high sent me the sweetest note on social media. Her mom, a former teacher of mine, had been saving my columns for Cori when she stops by.  It’s been 35 years, and Mrs. Atkinson is still keeping tabs on me. What a comfort and delight. All of my wonderful teachers are on my mind in the weeks before a school district levy vote, but ever since I heard from Cori, I’ve been thinking specifically about Mrs. Atkinson.

I went to a small religious elementary school, so when I got to Hawthorne Junior High in seventh grade, I only knew a handful of kids. The sheer number of students was a shock.  A kindhearted locker partner, and the promise of sports and band kept me from despair.

My first hour class was Mrs. Atkinson’s Lifetime Sports. Being a sporty kid, I was hopeful. When I learned she was the seventh grade volleyball and basketball coach, I was ecstatic. The class focused on sports we could play throughout our lifetime: tennis, golf, pickle ball, ping pong, and bowling.  I went on to join a youth bowling league, spent hours in college playing ping pong with my digital circuits study partner, and can still hold my own on a tennis court and golf course.

During the first week in class, I was trying to chat with a classmate when a group of girls from the reservation started to tease us. We ignored them at first, but the ring leader kept interrupting me. When I’d had enough, I looked her in the eyes and yelled, “Knock it off! You’re not being very Christian!” She smirked, handed her glasses to a friend and punched me. Hard. Right in the face. 

My eyes watered without my permission while she waited for me to fight back. I didn’t. It would not have been “Christian”, and the force in her punch told me I needed to sit this one out. Mrs. Atkinson had entered the gym just in time to see the exchange. She pulled us aside individually. I saw the pain in Mrs. Atkinson’s face when she told me if either of us was reported to the principal for fighting, we couldn’t play sports.  I was incensed that the other girl wasn’t going to get in trouble, but even in week one, I trusted Mrs. Atkinson and her judgement. The other girl went on to be a basketball star; I went on to play college volleyball; and as I got to know the other girl’s friends from the reservation, they became my friends, too.

I hesitated to make many friends my seventh grade year because my dad had moved back in while he recovered from having a lung removed. He spent my seventh grade year sleeping on our couch slowly dying of lung cancer, and I didn’t want anyone to see him in his sickly state.  Mrs. Atkinson often checked in with me asking how my dad was. She was a rock.

Two years later, Mrs. Atkinson coached our ninth grade volleyball team. I was so big that none of the uniform shorts fit me, so the whole team had to get new ones. There wasn’t funding or time to get a desirable replacement, so we ended up with cheap, white shorts. Not one ninth grade girl wanted white shorts, but Mrs. Atkinson squashed any rumbling and complaints before they could arise, and she didn’t let me spend one second feeling bad about my size or the money the school had to spend.

This past year, the pandemic has presented our school district with unforeseen challenges far greater than new ninth grade volleyball shorts. The teachers aren’t just supporting one or two kids going through a trauma like losing a parent, they’re supporting all kids going through the trauma of a pandemic while simultaneously experiencing it themselves. Through my thick gratitude for every teacher, I see their exhaustion.  And despite my own exhaustion and pandemic fatigue, you can bet I’ll be at the polls voting yes in the upcoming school levy in honor of my Mrs. Atkinson and every single teacher like her.

Mrs. Atkinson didn’t plant the seeds of math or science that spawned my career. She didn’t teach me how to string words together or interpret literature. Mrs. Atkinson brought me much more. My life has been enriched by sports and competition. My friendships have flourished through forgiveness and humility, and I know the value of a team coming together in white shorts with a winning attitude for the sake of one among them. There are few people who would ever want to relive their middle school years, but I’d go back in a heartbeat because of Mrs. Atkinson.

 

 

Writing Prompts and a Hike or Two

Published in the Idaho State Journal on February 14, 2021.

Last March when we shut things down due to the pandemic, I knew establishing structure and a routine would be critical. Our boys, in sixth and eighth grade, were settling in to online education. I began working from home, and our social interactions with friends ceased. By April, I was concerned that everything was centered on the computer, and I was worried that the boys were disconnected from friends and family. I decided they needed to write daily. They needed to sit with pencil and paper and simply write.

At first, I wanted them to write letters to grandparents, cousins, and friends. Writing by hand makes the mind aware. Writing to loved ones, makes the heart swell. They weren’t seeing the brilliance of my idea, and they argued and complained, so to show how easy and fun it would be, I joined them.

We sat at the kitchen table after breakfast and wrote for 24 minutes. I would wake at 5 a.m. so I could get some work done early and afford time to write with them. I had established a 30 minute target, but in the course of negotiations, we settled on 24. Our boys have become excellent negotiators in the last 11 months.

When they started to receive letters from their grandparents in Texas or friends across town, they were slightly more eager to write. After so many letters, though, they needed a change-up. We added the option of journaling or creative writing. Their new directive was to always write whatever popped into their heads without concern for grammar, spelling or punctuation.

I didn’t read the oldest’s work, but he flourished with the creative alternative often writing “just a few more sentences” after the timer went off. The youngest developed a series of stories about a female spy in the 1950’s who flew planes all over the world. They weren’t at all interested in journaling about their feelings. When they chose to write a letter, I let them know I would read them as I put them in envelopes. I got a glimpse into their feelings even if they didn’t think they were writing about them.

When I realized I had created this window into their minds and mental health, I started giving them a writing prompt. Some days, I wanted to encourage their thoughts in recalling happy times or things that would evoke joy and hope to kick-start their day. What was your favorite vacation? What will you do with your friends when the pandemic is under control?  Sometimes I asked more serious questions to spawn discussions, so they could get things off their chests and I could offer guidance and support. What do you miss the most since we’ve been socially isolating? When have you been the most afraid in your life?

We stopped writing when school was out for the summer. We kept our “germ unit” intact and isolated and did not eat out or visit friends’ houses. We spent a lot of time hiking. During those hikes, the kids would talk in ways I could imagine them writing. The youngest in particular wanted to be doing things with his friends rather than hiking with us.

When school resumed last fall in the hybrid model, our older son began his freshman year at Pocatello High School. With honors English and debate, he had ample opportunities to write and engage with peers, so we let him phase out of our writing practice. We’ve kept the assignment going for our seventh grader during his online learning days.

I had to get creative with the writing prompts. What do you like about flying? Imagine a day in the life of Franklin. (He is our grumpy 12 year old cat who apparently speaks with a lot of &^%#’s.)  What makes a good friend? Tell me everything in your head about water balloons. How do you feel about returning to in-person learning?

With our public schools resuming full-time in-person learning in March, more writing prompts will connect to that theme.  We’ve talked about why it is happening now. The COVID-19 daily case numbers have shown a declining trend over the last two months indicating less community spread. Hospital beds and resources aren’t at critical levels, so severe cases along with other traumas can receive prompt and adequate care, and teachers who want to be vaccinated should be by then.

The virus is not suddenly gone, but with precautions in place, a return to in-person learning in March makes sense for all of these reasons. While we continue to wade through this pandemic, our seventh grader is undoubtedly processing it in his own unique way. As winter fades to spring, the COVID-19 numbers lessen and vaccines roll out, he’s certainly got things he can write about and share with us. I just need to come up some writing prompts and a hike or two. 

A snow shoe hike off of Scout Mtn Rd

The dogs had a blast!

 

Vacation Revelations

 Appeared in the Idaho State Journal on February 7, 2021

Every year over the winter break, we watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. The 1989 movie starring Chevy Chase is a slapstick comedy that’s become as much a part of our blended family traditions as new pajamas on Christmas Eve and cinnamon monkey bread on Christmas morning.  When the first two movies in the series came out - Vacation in 1983 and European Vacation in 1985 – I was too young to see them in the theater, but they became prime rentals for my friends and me when we got to high school. We watched them over and over and laughed and laughed.

We’ve come to love the Clark W. Griswold family during Christmas, so our brood was on board to watch the other old shows in anticipation of similar giggles.  My recollection was that they were mildly inappropriate and peppered with sophomoric humor that aligns with our boys’ present stages of development. We settled in with our new pajamas, fleece blankets, and dozing dogs to start with the original. I was so excited for us to follow the Griswold family road trip from Chicago to California’s Wally World and revel in the repercussions of Clark’s bad luck and worse choices.

The first city was St. Louis and as the arch showed on the screen, our boys lit up.   Their dad is from Missouri and they have all been to a couple Cardinals baseball games. When Clark took a wrong turn, they ended up in a bad neighborhood. In this show, that means they ended up in a Black neighborhood. Our boys recognized the negative stereotyping immediately.  My wife’s neck whipped around and she glared at me with a mixture of “why are you having them watch this?” and “do you really think this is acceptable let alone funny?”  I had no words to address her stare.

Clark’s wife’s face conveyed nothing but fear. At least Clark was portrayed as clueless, so he didn’t come across prejudiced or overtly racist as he asked for directions back to the interstate. While distracted in the driver’s seat and talking to a Black man in a teal athletic suit, other Black men stole their hubcaps. The camera panned to a gold-chained pimp with three prostitutes flanking him. The only good part of sitting through this scene was the awareness our boys displayed and the disgust they declared at all of it.

With a promise of a family debrief, I convinced everyone to let the movie continue.  During one of the next stops in rural Kansas to see good ole Cousin Eddie, who we’ve come to know from Christmas Vacation, it got worse. When Eddie’s teenage daughter told her cousin “Daddy says I’m a good kisser,” we turned the movie off.

My mom was a child protection worker for crying out loud. I grew up learning that child sexual abuse is never funny. Not ever. How was this show in my head as one of the best stupid movies of all time?

Begging for another chance and assuring them that European Vacation had to be better, I convinced everyone to try it.  

The second show kicked off with the Griswold’s competing on a gameshow called Pig in a Poke where they would go on to win a European Vacation. The show was crafted after the original Family Feud where the relatives lined up to answer questions, and the host infamously kissed all of the female contestants on the lips during introductions.  When the Pig host planted a seconds-long full-mouthed kiss on teen Audrey Griswold, more confused and horrified glares came my way. 

At this point, I wasn’t as interested in being entertained or revisiting laughs. I wanted to dive into an investigation of “how will the rest of this look to me now?”

Some might classify these shows as “politically incorrect nowadays”, but it really goes much deeper than that.  I wish we could eliminate the phrase “politically correct” from present day vernacular and consider something like “compassionately correct” or “culturally considerate” as alternatives.  The Vacation movies’ racial stereotyping and jokes about child sexual abuse have nothing to do with politics, but everything to do with compassion and consideration for fellow human beings. 

Sometimes when we revisit old memories, the hyped nostalgia in our minds doesn’t disappoint. Other times, whether it’s a matter of growing up, shifting tastes or a more widespread changing of the times, an examination of old loves has the potential for unexpected outcomes. My drive down memory lane took a detour I didn’t expect, and I still don’t know exactly where I’m at. Watching the Vacation movies revealed that the last 30 years have remodeled my eyes and conscience. I used to love these movies, but they sure don’t represent what I think is funny today.