My brief and shocking cheer-leading past

You know how it is… You wake up from a terrible nightmare, sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, clutching your blankets, hoping that the axe-wielding murderer isn’t still chasing you or that your car didn’t crash over the cliff after all. I had this experience a couple of weeks ago, and it wasn’t a murderer or terrifying car crash that invaded my sleeping subconscious. Nope. I was having a vivid, horrible nightmare that I was a cheerleader.

Clearly, I’m not currently a cheerleader, unless you’re counting the kind that chauffeur their kid to a gazillion sporting events. I’m way too old to be the tiny-skirt-wearing, pom-pom shaking type. I mean, I’ll go to a hot yoga class half-naked (pre-pandemic, of course) and I’m 99% confident that I could bust a move as well as the Phoenix Suns dancers that I saw at a game a couple of years ago, but I can’t imagine a scenario where it would happen, in public, on the sidelines of an athletic competition, at this point in my life.

Despite all reassurances of logic and reality, the terror of my nightmare stuck with me throughout the day. I am most certainly not a cheerleader now, and I would say the risk of me becoming a cheerleader any time in the future is akin to being struck by lightening or winning the lottery, but what about the past? Had I ever been a cheerleader? I didn’t think so, but I had to admit, there was a niggling doubt.

I delved into the depths of my history – or at least dug through a bunch of old photos – and my shocking discovery took me on a trip down memory lane into my brief cheer-leading past.

Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate….

Well, here you have it, photographic evidence that I was indeed a cheerleader. The weird arm pose is somewhere between reluctant cheerleader and aspiring body builder, but I think we can all agree that the stick-thin limbs, coupled with the itty-bitty skirt point toward the former. My memories of this are fuzzy and elusive – much like a dream I’m trying too hard to remember, but I think I spent one season cheering for a junior football league of some sort when we lived in Arizona. My favorite part about this photo is that I’m wearing my beloved red Snoopy watch. Bonus points for anyone who can figure out what brand of sneakers I’m wearing. I can’t tell. Some long-defunct ‘70s label?

Another chapter in my apparently storied cheer-leading history. (I’m the one with the bright blond pigtails.)

This gem was taken at “Mini Cheer Summer Camp” in 1980 (as the t-shirts indicate), and while the memories the former photo sparked are murky at best, these came rushing back, crystal clear.

The highlight of cheer camp for me was the pom-poms. If I close my eyes, I can still see, hear, and feel them. They seemed so enormous and glamorous. They were black and gold (the high school colors) and they made such a happy noise when shaken. I’m talking about big, round ‘70s pom-poms; not the sad little nubby ones you see these days that barely poke out of the cheerleaders’ hands. These babies were a rare commodity and highly in-demand. I think each camp participant got dumb little pretend pom-poms made of cheap crepe paper, but the big, fluffy, crinkly, REAL ones . . . there were only seven or eight pairs of those in existence and they belonged to the super cool, sophisticated members of the high school cheer-leading team, who were also our camp teachers.

At the end of each camp day, the cheerleaders gathered all the kids in the gym and gave awards. Each cheerleader picked a camper who had shown the most “spirit” (whatever that means) or who had learned a cheer particularly well or who had perfected a dance routine, and that lucky little girl’s reward was taking a set of pom-poms home for the WHOLE night! It was almost too wonderful to be believed. I KILLED myself every day trying to win the pom-poms. Oh, how I wanted to feel them in my hands, to hear that faint crinkly, swishing noise when I shook them. Finally, several days into the camp, my dream came true. And I didn’t get just anyone’s pom-poms – I got Shannon’s pom-poms.  She was my favorite. She seemed beautiful and cool and impossibly glamorous, and I was blessed with possession of her pom-poms for a whole 15+ hours!  I was so happy, I couldn’t stop smiling. I didn’t let go of the pom-poms all night.  I shook them to my heart’s content. I danced with them and cheered with them, and took them to bed with me. I spent the whole evening creating choreography that was specifically designed to make the most of the pom-poms.

As if winning the pom-poms wasn’t fantastic enough, there was also a bonus prize. When you won the pom-poms, you also got that cheerleader’s “spirit stick.” I thought that maybe spirit sticks were unique to where I grew up or were just a 70’s thing, but a quick Google search proved me wrong.

According to my internet research, the spirit stick tradition was born at a National Cheerleaders Association camp sometime in the mid-20^th century. Over the course of the camp, one team stood out from the rest. They couldn’t jump, or stunt, or tumble as well as the other teams, but their positive attitude and spirit promoted enthusiasm and unity among all the camp participants. Their scores wouldn't land them in the winner's circle, but Lawrence "Herkie" Herkimer (cheer-leading innovator and pom-pom patent holder!!!), wanted to acknowledge their efforts in a special way. With such short notice, he didn't have many options, so he cut a branch off a tree, painted it and allowed it to dry in his garage. He presented the stick to the team as a "spirit stick" to honor the attitude and enthusiasm that the team embodied.

Wow. This guy really knew how to give a special award. “Hey, um, you kind of suck, but because of your great attitude and everything, I cut this stick off a tree and put some left-over paint on it. Enjoy.” Next time you’re lecturing your kids about the lameness of participation awards, you can tell them, “Look, when I was a kid, we didn’t get a trophy just for participating. No, we got a gnarled, broken-ass stick.”

Despite the humble and, let’s face it, lame origins of the spirit stick, the stick clearly stuck. Now there are many options for purchasing commercially manufactured spirit sticks, or you can get crafty and make your own to put old Herkie’s DIY job to shame.

A glitzy, modern version of the spirit stick.

The spirit sticks at my Mini Cheer Camp were large pieces of dowel that were about a foot long.  They were painted gold with black stripes on the end and they had the cheerleader’s name on them. Other than serving as an award for effort and a perky cheerleader attitude, I’m not sure what the spirit sticks were used for. I think we were supposed to yell and scream and “show lots of spirit” when the cheerleaders held them in the air. I imagine they used them in the same manner in their official cheerleader capacity at games. 

Does this gang of spirit stick wielding cheerleaders inspire you to cheer for your team or run for your life?

In my mind, the spirit sticks paled in comparison to the pom-poms, but the cool thing about the spirit sticks was that, on the last day of camp, each cheerleader picked one “overall best” girl who won that cheerleader’s spirit stick and got to keep it FOREVER.  They must have made new ones for themselves each fall.  Or maybe their pot-smoking boyfriends made them in between designing and building new bongs in wood shop. It was the end of the ‘70's after all. Anyway, the last day of camp rolled around and I was a nervous wreck wondering if I would win a spirit stick. I knew I would be in the running, since I was one of the daily pom-pom winners. The awards process seemed to take forever. The suspense with each name they called was excruciatingly painful. At long last, the ever-cool Shannon called my name! I could hardly believe it!  It was the best summer ever. I treasured that spirit stick with the black block letters that spelled S-H-A-N-N-O-N for at least the rest of the summer. I have no idea what ever happened to it, or Shannon for that matter.

If only I had been able to keep the pom-poms instead, I truly would have cherished them forever and the arc of reality could have been altered. Like the Chaos Theory’s Butterfly Effect where a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the world causes a hurricane on another, small changes in initial conditions can lead to drastic changes in results. Maybe I would have leaned cheerleader instead of dancer? Maybe the Seattle Mariners would have played in a World Series. Maybe they would have even won?! Maybe the Russians wouldn’t have influenced the 2016 election? Who knows the power of pom-poms? At the very least, I could be having very different nightmares.

8th Grade Graduation – Then and Now

It’s graduation time. Despite the very strange circumstances imposed by a global pandemic, I am enjoying my own family’s celebrations, as well as seeing photos of other graduates – from newly minted kindergarteners (the cutest!), to 8^th grade, high school, and college grads.

Even without having to graduate in quarantine, these important rites of passage are emotional affairs – leaving behind beloved places, people, and phases of life to embark on new adventures and bright futures. It’s all very bittersweet.

While I’ve been feeling sad for the young people who are missing out on typical, in-person traditions associated with graduations, I’ve been moved and impressed with efforts to celebrate our graduates despite the limitations of current reality. Parent volunteers, dedicated administrators, unendingly fantastic teachers, and even students themselves have gone above and beyond to celebrate graduation accomplishments this year – from yard signs and gift bag deliveries, to graduation parades and virtual commencement programs. It hasn’t been the same, but it has been special, and it will certainly be remembered.

All the graduation fanfare got me thinking about my own graduations and how they measured up to this year’s batch of commencements. Since my son Chester graduated from 8^th grade this year, I dug into my memory banks (and old photos) to conduct a comparison of our 8^th grade graduations, including all the important elements: Ceremony, attire, and, of course, hair.

8^th Grade Graduation of Chester Billerbeck: Present day (2020), Westside School, Seattle, Washington

Because of the corona virus pandemic, Chester’s graduation looked a lot different than it would have under normal circumstances. His class should have gone on a camping trip the week before graduation – a tradition all Westside kids hear about and look forward to throughout their years at the school.

Instead of gathering around a campfire and sharing insights and memories about each other, the students wrote little notes that were delivered on graduation day. Another important camping trip tradition involves students hiking into the woods and spending solitary time reading letters secretly written in advance by their parents. In lieu of this experience, Chester asked me for the letter on graduation day, after his class met via Zoom. He proceeded to the backyard, where he valiantly attempted to recreate the forest vibe by setting up a camp chair facing a Japanese maple and some nearly-blooming peonies. I think he appreciated the letter (as much as any 8^th grade boy could), but reported that the attempt to conjure a wilderness setting was, sadly, unsuccessful.

A couple of hours after Chester’s backyard “hike” experience, a wonderful graduation procession came by our house, including the Westside bus and several carloads of teachers, administrators, and even the Westside Wolf mascot. They came bearing colorful signs, flowers, Chester’s 8^th grade diploma, and a bag of cards and goodies. There was so much honking and happy chattering that our neighbor even came out with her own “Congratulations Graduate!” sign (She is, and has always been, presciently prepared for any festive occasion. It is inexplicable and lovely.)

Finally, instead of a ceremony in the school’s auditorium, we all tuned in for a pre-recorded commencement ceremony on YouTube, followed by a Zoom reception. I had my doubts about an online graduation, but the Westside staff pulled off a ceremony that was thoughtful, meaningful, and moving. It truly honored each graduate as an individual and celebrated their uniquely wonderful class.

 

This photo was taken before the online ceremony. As you can see, we took the opportunity to don a slight more dressed-up look than our typical quarantine-wear. Chester put on a dress-shirt and some jeans that he clearly outgrew since the last time he put them on, pre-pandemic. When his future friends make fun of his hair, he’ll have the excuse that he had been in quarantine for three months and was left with a partly grown-out haircut that his mom felt convinced she could handle after a YouTube tutorial. I had no such excuse for my 8^th grade graduation hair, unless you count the fact that it was the 80’s.

  

8^th Grade Graduation of Ronda Billerbeck (née Simons): 1986, Azalea Middle School, Brookings, Oregon

 I honestly don’t recall if my class had a graduation ceremony for 8^th grade, but we must have. The part of our festivities that really stands out in my memory is the graduation dance. It was our first “semi-formal” dance before the barrage of high school homecomings and proms, so I remember it feeling very special and grown up.

A vague memory of a graduation ceremony is lurking in the recesses of my brain. I think it took place in the gym, prior to the dance. I remember being bussed to and from a pre-dance “banquet” which was basically a spaghetti-feed. (Who feeds spaghetti to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds dressed up in semi-formal clothing?!)

The dance took place in our school’s “wresting room,” which was a smaller gym connected to the main gym. It was filled with wrestling mats and an assortment of athletic equipment used daily by junior high boys. It didn’t set the tone for a fancy event for many reasons, not the least of which was the smell.

Here I am, at the dance, with my date, Adam. Let’s take a moment to admire my totally bitchin’ 80s dress…

 

I. Loved. This. Dress.

 

I loved this dress, and it involved quite a lot of drama. I saw it in some magazine (Seventeen probably) and fell completely in love with it. Nothing else would do. I HAD to have this Jessica McClintock number. Any girl who grew up in the 80s will remember that Jessica McClintock dresses were THE dresses to have. (Jessica McClintock prom dresses were in the 80s what Vera Wang wedding gowns were in the 90s.)

So, I had identified the desired dress; all I had to do was go out and purchase it, right? Wrong! A dress this fabulous certainly wasn’t available anywhere in or near the rural Oregon community where I grew up (this is pre-Al Gore’s internet, remember?), so I begged my mom to enlist the help of my aunt who, at the time, lived in Seattle.  She scoured the city and found the dress! In my size! I was thrilled! Little did I know, trouble was brewing. Trouble of the most serious sort. 

A classmate returned from a family spring break vacation to California with a “totally cute” graduation dress.  It was Jessica McClintock and it had a ruffle around the top; it was tea-length, with a slight princess waist-line, and bows on the shoulders. This dress was sounding awfully familiar and my worst fears were confirmed. This bitch had the EXACT same dress (Oh the horror!) in light pink. Mine was clearly more sophisticated in seafoam, but still.

Tears were shed.  Threats were made. Names were called. Mothers conferred via telephone. At long last, the copycat bitch and I were convinced (sort of, but not really) that the color difference made the whole situation acceptable. I compensated with a handmade choker, crafted of ribbon a few shades darker than the dress, adorned with a real rose with petal-tips dyed the same color. Breathtaking. Please ignore my hideous hair. I look like a cross between a poodle and Sammy Hagar.

After all that drama over my dress, you can image how careful I was to avoid splattering red sauce all over it at the spaghetti feed. I emerged unscathed from the banquet but someone spilled fruit punch all over the front of my dress about five minutes after this photo was taken at the dance. 

So, in review, after worrying about Chester not having a meaningful 8^th grade graduation, I think he ended up with a ceremony that was much more memorable than mine. He didn’t have to endure a socially awkward formal dance in a stinky gym, and he certainly came away with much less cringe-worthy photographic evidence. (We both have mouths full of braces, so that’s a wash.)

Congratulations 2020 graduates!

 

 

Drive My Car?

I’m not sure if I’m ever going to be able to do what I do again; at least not in the same way. I’m an arts administrator and performing arts presenter. My whole professional purpose is bringing people together to see art, to be entertained, to build community, to witness beauty and to share that experience with each other.

We’ve all read countless essays, articles, and stories about how profoundly the arts and entertainment world has been impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. And, I know it’s not just the arts, or restaurants, or retail, or … (insert one of many devastated sectors). Let’s face it, almost every nook and cranny of our economy is feeling the pain.

So far, I feel lucky. I run the arts program of a suburban city, so my arts job is more stable than many. But now state and local governments are falling into deeper and deeper deficits. Each day I hear about another city in our region that has cut millions of dollars, laid off employees, and decimated arts, music, and park programs. In this new reality, it feels like stability is slipping away, like a car in an action movie teetering on the edge of a cliff after a hairpin switch-back chase scene. Time stops as the protagonist sits frozen in the driver’s seat, simultaneously thrilled that she is still alive and terrified that she soon won’t be. The car lurches, then stills before lurching several more inches toward the drop below. It’s silent except for the sounds of slipping rocks and creaking metal. Should she try to climb out? Should she lean one way or the other? Should she remain motionless until someone comes to rescue her? Every minuscule decision, every tiny action seems to matter immensely and not matter at all.

Every day, when I get up and turn on my laptop to tackle another day of working from home, I’m in that doomed car…

Bad-ass Paul Walker (R.I.P.) as Brian O'Conner in Furious 7 (Universal Pictures) 

Some days I’m all adrenaline and focused confidence. I’m leaning. I’m shifting my weight. I’m wriggling slowly toward the shattered window. I’m going to climb onto the hood and leap to the safety of solid ground as the car gives way and sails through the air before crashing in a spectacular explosion on the rocks below. “Well that car is destroyed,” I think, “but we’ll create a brand-new car!” If there is anyone who can do it, it’s artists and people who work in the arts and culture sector. I’ve spent my entire career in this field and have always counted myself lucky to work with smart, creative, hard-working and committed people. We can do it. We’ll build a new car. So many of my colleagues – those I don’t know and those I do – across the country and world are showing inspiring creativity in coming up with ways to keep making and sharing art. Live streaming performances with audience interaction, murals on the boarded-up windows of neighborhood businesses, online platforms for sharing art, virtual museum tours, socially distanced events of all different kinds. This is a brand-new car, a completely different car. Maybe even an exciting car!

Other days, I’m lost and hopeless. I’m frozen behind the wheel and I feel like it doesn’t matter what I do. I can hold my breath. I can shimmy and crawl. It doesn’t matter because I’m either going down with that beat-up car or hanging onto the edge of the cliff by my fingertips. Maybe I’ll muster the strength and get a foothold. Maybe I’ll drag myself to the top and limp to a new car. But it feels like this new car isn’t nearly as fun as the old car. I’m not racing around corners with the windows down, my hair blowing in the breeze and the sun on my face. It’s a driving simulator – it looks like a car, it offers all the key components of driving a car, but none of the essence, none of life, none of that magic that happens when you’re speeding down a real road.

I’m spending my days working on Plan B’s, and Plan C’s, and even Plan D’s. Sometimes it’s exciting to flex my creative muscles a little more than usual, to feel like maybe this whole thing has jostled me out of a “this is how we’ve always done things” rut. But there’s always a niggling doubt… Are people even going to want to watch a live-streamed version of this show? One where they can’t hear the reactions and applause of the people sitting next to them. Are people going to go out of their way to take a virtual tour of a museum or gallery? Is seeing Starry Night on video that much different than seeing it in the book sitting on the coffee table? Aren’t we missing the essence of the thing if we can’t share it? If we can’t see our own wonder and emotion reflected on the faces of those around us?   

Here’s the thing… I don’t want to have those kinds of arts experiences. No matter how clever and how many technological bells and whistles, they seem a little empty. I immediately appreciate the ingenuity, but that wears off and then… it’s a driving simulator and not a Ferrari. So, if I don’t want them, why am I knocking myself out to plan them for others? Does anyone want them? Is all my leaning and wiggling and trying to pull myself and my work up from that cliff worth it? Can I deliver a car that anyone wants to drive?

Dream Weaver

You know that part in the movie Wayne’s World where Wayne sees Cassandra on stage for the first time, is transfixed, and Gary Wright’s Dream Weaver starts playing in his head? Well, I had my very own Dream Weaver moment recently. Mine went down quite a bit differently, but it was equally memorable.

It was a rainy Saturday and I promised my 12-year-old son that I would take him and his friend T. to the mall to search for Funko Pop figures. (For those of you who have been living under a rock, or at least not in close proximity to pre-teen boys, Funko is a company that sells licensed pop culture collectibles, particularly vinyl figurines and bobbleheads. If you’re into Marvel Comics, you can collect all the characters from the new Avengers End Game movie. If you’re into rock and roll, you can collect various rock stars. If you’re a big fan of Disney/Pixar movies, Funko has got you covered. Heck, if you’re a horror movie buff, you can even have your very own Jack Torrance or Pennywise bobblehead.)

So, rainy afternoon, mall, two boys. All was going as planned. They were shopping for collectibles and I was enjoying lunch on my own, marveling at how nice it is that they are old enough to explore the mall by themselves and how much fun it is to see them enjoying that new freedom. They met me at the appointed time and place with full bags and empty pockets. Success! We all dashed through the rain to the car and, as they excitedly told me about their shopping adventures, I tried to start the car. No go. Literally. I tried again and again, and the ignition would chug-chug, turnover, and then die.

I called AAA and sent the boys back into the mall for another round of snacking and shopping. The AAA guy showed up within 45 minutes, which I didn’t think was too bad, but it wasn’t a flat tire or a dead battery, so he couldn’t fix it. Phase Two was calling a tow truck, which was supposed to come within an hour and a half. It didn’t. And, as it turns out, even a mall full of Funko Pop figures can only entertain a couple of pre-teen boys for so long. I called T.’s mom and she swooped in to save the boys while I continued waiting for the tow truck.

After two hours and two more queries to AAA, I received a call from the tow company dispatcher who told me she had switched my cell phone number with someone else’s. The driver had been driving around to various mall entrances trying unsuccessfully to connect with me. Fantastic.

 At long last, I saw the tow truck pull up across from the mall entrance where I was waiting. I waved with one arm. Nothing. I waved with two arms. Still nothing. I flailed both arms over my head and jumped up and down in the pouring rain like a crazy person. Nope. Finally, I darted across two lanes of traffic and approached the driver’s side of the truck. The driver was looking down at his phone. “Hello! I’m Ronda!” I shouted through the crack in his window. He seemed truly surprised that someone was looking for him, but figured out to follow me to where my lifeless car was parked in the crowded mall parking lot.

Just as he sidled his truck up to my car and got out to assess the situation, the air suddenly filled with the unmistakable smell of marijuana smoke. I looked at him like, “Are you kidding me?” and when he looked back at me the same way, we both turned to see smoke rolling out of the car next to mine. It was like we had stumbled out of Spicoli’s van in Fast Times at Ridgemont High or into a Snoop Dog video, depending on your preferred era.  

Before he got to work, Mr. Tow Truck driver made a big point of returning to his truck to open all the doors and crank the radio. You know, how you do when you’re working in the middle of a crowded public space. And that’s when it happened. Blasting from the tow truck stereo… “Ooooh, dreeeam weeeeeavah… I believe you can get me through the niii-hiiiight…” I froze, just like Wayne in Wayne’s world, but instead of being in awe of a Schwing-worthy babe, I was mortified.  

I tried my best to ignore to the smoke-fest next door, and the impassioned vocals about astral planes and highways of fantasy to focus on the task at hand, which was to stand there looking and smelling like the world’s most soggy, stoner, blast-from-the-past mom. “Help me to forget today’s pain,” indeed.

Fortunately Dream Weaver, as I’ll now call him and forever know him, worked quickly and I felt a major sense of relief when he signaled that it was time for me to hop in (or climb aboard the dream weaver train as a long as I’m playing with the lyrics). Sadly, there was no relief to be had.

The first words out of Dream Weaver’s mouth were “So, how old are you?” I flatly informed him that I am 46 years old and he said, with a sleazy smile, “No way! I thought you were, like, my age. I’m 33.” Right, dude. He was unfazed by my advanced years and chatted incessantly, taking numerous wrong turns as I tried to shout directions to the car dealership over the top of his running commentary.

Apparently Dream Weaver did a very exciting stint in the U.S. Army, during which he participated in top secret and very dangerous training exercises near a sarin gas storage facility. I think he sensed that I wasn’t impressed with his military history, so he switched to a harrowing story about when his tow truck got stolen and he had to recover it himself using his personal car, a Mercedes. He chased the stolen truck down a freeway in his own car, which was a Mercedes. Did I mention that he mentioned that his personal car is a Mercedes? Oh yes, I see that I did. Were you impressed? Me neither.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, he became annoyed by a rattling sound in the cab of the truck and set about trying to figure out where it was coming from, with absolutely no luck. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, reached over, and put a finger on the empty Rock Star energy drink can that was sitting in his cup holder. Of course, the rattling stopped immediately. He looked over at me with the most incredulous expression, winked, and said, “Heeeeeey, are YOU a mechanic?!”

At that moment, we were pulling up to the service entrance of the car dealership, so I was spared from explaining to him that I’m obviously not a mechanic or I wouldn’t be riding in a tow truck with him. I didn’t want to share that I’m just amazingly gifted at figuring out random car rattles, lest I increase my irresistible appeal.

The service department guy approached to tell us where to leave my car, which I quickly jumped on as the perfect opportunity to get off the Dream Weaver train. I thought about turning around and waving goodbye, but I didn’t. Instead, I imagined a film tableau set to magical, synthesized music, a shot of me walking away from the tow truck… Though the dawn may be coming soon, there still may be some time. Fly me away to the bright side of the moon, and meet me on the other side. Oooooh, dream weaver, I believe you can get me through the night. Ooooooh, dream weaver, I believe we can reach the morning light.

Reaping the Authentic Results

On this third day after the election, I’m tired of hearing that racism, misogyny, and xenophobia had nothing to do with Donald Trump’s election.  This boggles my mind. The guy openly ran on a platform of racism, misogyny, and xenophobia. That is some ugly, ugly stuff, so I can see why we’d all (whether we voted for him or not) like to conveniently and quickly dismiss it by sweeping it under the rug of jobs and authenticity and desire for change. But in the few days since the election, it’s fairly clear we’re not going to be able to do that.

If Trump’s victory had nothing to do with racism, misogyny, and xenophobia, how do we explain the bold, public display of those hateful behaviors across the nation in the past couple of days? Threatening notes left on the homes and cars of gay families, shouts of “go back where you came from” as people of color simply try to go to class or commute to work, swastikas painted on dugouts where our children play baseball, Muslim women physically assaulted, “black lives don’t matter and neither do your votes” scrawled across public spaces, school children openly chanting “build that wall, build that wall!” while their Latino classmates cry – the uptick (and I think that might be too gentle a word) in hate speech and crimes is crystal clear. Trump openly encouraged this behavior throughout his campaign and at his rallies; now we’re reaping the results.

I do not assume the people committing these vile acts represent everyone who cast a ballot for Trump. In fact, I’m positive that isn’t true. People I know voted for Trump. People I like very much voted for Trump. I’m fairly certain people I dearly love voted for Trump. My sadness and anger at the outcome of this election will not cause me to turn my back on these people. I certainly won’t stop loving friends and family who voted for Trump and I don’t intend to “unfriend” anyone who voted for Trump – unless, of course, they make it clear to me through hateful words and behaviors that they are of the ilk who find it acceptable to belittle and terrorize, and to bring that despicable behavior into the public spaces of my community. Sadly, there have already been a few of those.

Like many people who are vehemently opposed to Trump, I’m experiencing quite a bit of dissonance, trying to reconcile Trump’s hateful messages with the good people who voted for him. My coping mechanism has been reading everything I can get my hands on – I’m wading through information and opinion pieces from a wide range of sources and ideologies, hoping to gain insight. Much of what I find leads me on tangents of further questions and confusion as I read words like “authenticity” and sentiments like “he tells it like it is.”

My good friend Merriam-Webster defines “authentic” as real or genuine, not copied or false, true and accurate. While the dictionary definition doesn’t suggest a value judgment – it doesn’t say authenticity is inherently good or bad – we generally apply the term to “good” things: Authentic New York-style pizza – yum!  Authentic Rolex watch or Louis Vuitton bag – no knock-offs here! She is such an authentic person – no pretense! But can’t authentic things also be bad? Do we always want people to say exactly what they’re thinking? Sometimes I see someone wearing what I consider to be an unattractive outfit. I may have a snarky thought like, “What was that person thinking when they got dressed!?” But I would never openly mock; I would be horrified if the person could somehow hear my unkind thought. I keep it where it should be – to myself. Does that make me inauthentic or does it just make me a kind human being, participating in the maintenance of a civil society?

Maybe Donald Trump truly believes all the horrible things he has said about women, people of color, and differing religions; it certainly seems like he does, based on his documented behavior. In that case, I suppose he fits the dictionary definition of “authentic,” but we shouldn’t be celebrating that as a good thing. Is it acceptable to be an awful human being as long as you’re open, even boastful, about it? Some things are better kept quiet. Didn’t all of our parents teach us, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all?” That old adage is arguably simplistic but it gets at the root of an important societal truth – there must be parameters and norms around words and behaviors if we expect to maintain a functioning society.  

I’ve also considered that perhaps Donald Trump doesn’t really believe all the hate he spews, and I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. It would certainly tarnish the “authenticity” that many voters seem to value in him if he was just spinning a storyline to whip the truly racist, misogynistic, and xenophobic into an activated frenzy. In my more optimistic moments, I hope it would mean perhaps he’ll change his tune now that he’s been elected. Maybe he’ll dial it back a bit. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s so easy to close the lid of the awful Pandora’s Box he’s opened, authentically or not. 

While many of Trump’s voters don’t support or participate in racist, misogynistic, or xenophobic behavior, they do own the inevitable results of Trump’s election, and I hope with all my heart they will not sweep it under a rug, that they will acknowledge it and stand up with me to fight against it.  

This Post-Election Morning

This morning, as I walked the block and a half from my car to my office, a man leaned out of his car window, whistled and said “Nice!” as he drove by. This happens fairly frequently, but today felt different. Leering catcalls are always annoying and disconcerting, but this morning, the day after my country elected a truly vile human being who regularly demeans and degrades women, and brags about violence against female bodies, it felt downright terrifying. It didn’t feel like one asshole in a truck; it felt like the whole country making me nothing more than an object, staring me right in the face and letting me know full well that my success, happiness, and safety depend completely on whether or not the guys in the trucks decide to keep on driving today or to stop and do whatever they feel like doing.

When I was a little girl, I was told I could grow up to do and be anything. I was raised to believe that I was lucky to be growing up in such a time. Unfortunately, that optimistic sentiment didn’t line up with the reality I faced. I wanted to play drums in the school band… Nope, the choices for girls were flute or clarinet. I wanted to grow up to be a fighter pilot… Oh no, girls can’t ever do that! When I was 8 or 9 years old, a friend’s mother overheard us talking about what we wanted to study when we went to college. She told us we were being ridiculous, that we should focus on finding  good husbands instead, and that if we weren’t married by the time we were 18 all the “good men” would be gone. When I came back to work after three months of maternity leave, a male superior who I admired and respected asked me how I was enjoying motherhood. I told him it was wonderful, interpreting his nodding head and smiling face as signs that he was fondly recalling the early months with his own children; but I watched his smile turn to a confusing smirk as he said, “One of my mentors always told me ‘Never hire a woman of child-bearing age.’”

Like most women, I could write a book filled with sexist anecdotes ranging from the sort that would be funny if they weren’t so annoying to those that are outright scary and appalling. So forgive me if I’m having trouble embracing the sentiment that this is politics-as-usual. I don’t think there’s anything “usual” about electing a man who proudly displays a clear and vehement distain for women as anything other than sex objects. How have we elected a man who is absolutely unqualified to hold the highest leadership position in our nation? A man who incites violence against those who don’t agree with him? A man who belittles and attacks anyone who isn’t just like him?

How in the world could any woman have voted for the King of Catcalling Assholes in Trucks? Former Secretary of State Madeleine K. Albright has said “There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women." I think there might be an even deeper, more “special” place for women who voted for Donald Trump.

I’m tired of hearing that it’s because voters in more rural areas feel disenfranchised – that their way of life is being left behind. I grew up in very rural America – small towns in Arizona and Oregon – so I understand the issues. What I don’t understand is how hate, bigotry, and ignorance clearly prevailed over the kindness that I knew in those communities.  Many are arguing that the disenfranchisement and frustration with Washington D.C. was felt so keenly that voters were willing to put aside or ignore all the hate Donald Trump spewed like a broken fire hydrant. I don’t buy it. You don’t get to put that aside. You can’t support Donald Trump without supporting his misogynistic, racist platform. I, like many others today, feel like I woke up in a country I didn’t know existed. I believed that goodness would outweigh frustration. I refused to believe people would be willing to burn everything good to the ground. Silly me. All I can say is, good job cutting off your nose to spite your face, America.

I don’t understand the “political outsider” appeal of Donald Trump. Being a “political outsider” means he has exactly zero qualifications to perform an extremely difficult, complex job. I’ve spent my entire career in municipal government and I find this argument baffling. I simply cannot understand why large groups of citizens (the majority even!) think it’s a great idea to have people who have no experience or understanding of what they’re doing, take on important jobs that impact the very fabric and operation of our society. If you were hiring a person to handle your company’s accounting, would you look at the resume of a biologist (brilliant as he or she may be) and exclaim, “Yes! This is the one! This candidate has no concept of standard accounting practices and procedures! She’ll bring a great fresh perspective to this job!” No, you would not. If you needed heart surgery, would you select the person who has a long and esteemed career as an artist? I mean, why not bring some new thinking to the surgery, right? Who wants a tired, old, experienced doctor who has performed thousands of successful heart surgeries! Boring!

So, as I was harassed this morning, like on so many other mornings, my heart broke a little more than usual – for myself, for all women, for racial and religious minorities, for LGBTQ people, and mostly for our children. There seems to be an outpouring from distraught parents today as we struggle with how to talk with our children about the horrifying outcome of this election. An article titled “What Do We Tell the Children?” by Ali Michael, Ph.D. (http://huff.to/2fYVG4p ) has been circulating like crazy this morning on the Facebook feeds of fellow parents and people who care about children in general.

Children are genuinely frightened. I’ve lost track of how many posts I’ve seen from parents who are attempting to comfort crying children, daughters who are fearful that they are no longer safe from physical harm, and sons who worry that bad things will happen to them or their loved ones. Beautiful little boys and girls now see that this country has picked a terrifying bully as its leader. We as adults haven’t told them that – they’ve seen and heard Donald Trump mocking disabled people, degrading women, calling people of color rapists and criminals. As the parent of a ten year old boy, as a woman, as a decent human being, I can’t begin to put to words how furious and profoundly sad this makes me.

Of course we will teach our children to keep on loving each other, to stay kind, and that we will continue to protect them. (What choice do we have?) We’ll tell them that “one bad man” can’t do that much harm all by himself; that we have a big democratic system with checks and balances. But kids are smart; they see through all kinds of bullshit. They’ve seen the “bad man” and they’ve heard him say terrible things with their own ears. They’ve seen and heard about the violence and vitriol at his rallies. They’ve been watching and they’ve been listening and now they are, understandably, scared. So much for the days when children were inspired by presidents!

The commentators kept saying this would be an historic election result no matter what – we’d either have the first female president or the first president to have never previously run for public office or served in the military. Well, I think we have another historic first… We have the first president our children are terrified of. This should tell us something, America – something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.  

All I really need to know about patriotism I learned from my junior high essay contest

Lately I’ve been increasingly alarmed by “patriotism” or at least what is passing as patriotism. Instead of a unifying love of and commitment to country, today’s patriotism seems terrifyingly zealous, unquestioning, and shallow.

In mainstream media, on social media, and as part of everyday interactions, people are exhibiting appallingly aggressive and divisive behavior in the name of patriotism. Over-the-top name calling, ridiculous personal insults, and even death threats are the responses to acts as simple as not standing for the National Anthem or supporting someone who makes that choice.

As pretty much the entire world knows at this point, San Francisco 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick chose to remain seated during the National Anthem at a pre-season game. "I am not going to stand up to show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color," Kaepernick said, via NFL.com.

Here’s the deal: I don’t care about football. In fact, there isn’t much I care less about than football. Admitting indifference toward football in Seattle these days is akin to blasphemy. With Seahawks fever raging, I’ve gotten used to the sideways glances I get on “Blue Friday” when I’m conspicuously not wearing any Seahawks gear – no blue and green hair ribbons, no face decals, no tiny little “12s” painted on my fingernails. I do own one Seahawks t-shirt that I break out of deep storage for special occasions (i.e. when my ten year old son insists.) Despite my long-standing disinterest in the sport, I will confess that having my hometown team win the Super Bowl was pretty fun. It was enjoyable to watch the games with my son and to see the community participate in all the hoopla.

Thanks to the Seahawks, I have a very cursory understanding of what the football fuss is all about. But now there is a whole new category of fuss over football; my Facebook feed has switched from general excitement about the season beginning and trash-talking between fans of rival teams to a political uproar over players refusing to stand for the National Anthem.

Kaepernick chose to remain seated to bring attention to a cause he cares about, and, since then, a number of other NFL players have either joined him in sitting/kneeling, or engaged in other shows of solidarity like linking arms or raising fists. (Kaepernick apparently switched from sitting to kneeling in an effort to communicate his message while still showing respect for the military, police, and country.) Still, many people perceive Kaepernick’s actions as unpatriotic (“perceive” being the key word.) These people have gotten very angry. My own social media-sphere has examples of threatening and hateful comments directed toward these NFL players and anyone who dares to agree with them.

This conversation (and conversation is a stretch given that it’s more like a screaming match) is missing an important distinction between ‘method’ and ‘meaning.’ I don’t necessarily agree (or for that matter, disagree) with Colin Kaepernick’s method of making the statement he’s making. I do believe that the issue he’s highlighting is meaningful to our society and requires civil attention and dialogue. What’s more, I definitely agree that he has the right to express himself and to try to affect change. And I don’t think doing so makes him unpatriotic.

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines patriotism as “love for or devotion to one's country.” It doesn’t say anything about standing for the National Anthem – that’s a symbol of devotion to country. Symbols are important ways for us to understand and express abstract ideas and concepts, but it becomes problematic when the symbol takes precedence over what it represents. Couldn’t choosing to kneel during the National Anthem as a method of calling attention to an important national issue be interpreted as love for and devotion to one’s country? I don’t know whether it’s the “right” method and it certainly can’t be the only method, but ultimately these football players are trying to create positive change for our country.

It’s a complicated issue to be sure, one that deserves respectful acknowledgement and conversation, not racial slurs and threats. Now, I’m sure some would argue that the NFL players don’t really care about anything more than calling attention to themselves for personal gain and satisfaction. Believe me, I’m the first to roll my eyes at the over-inflated egos and paychecks of professional athletes. I’m just using this example to talk about the bigger issue of American patriotism being alarmingly warped and out of control.  

Sometime during junior high, I won an essay contest that was sponsored by a local service organization. My memory of the ‘when’ and ‘who’ details is a bit fuzzy, but I remember the ‘what’ clearly. We were to explore and take a stand on whether or not burning the American flag should be a crime. My pre-teen brain, confused though it undoubtedly was, immediately recognized this question as a complicated and sticky one.

It is important to note that my K-12 schools, while beloved in my memories, were not bastions of educational rigor. There were some stand-out moments, as well as teachers I appreciate to this day, but I had more than one high school class that consisted almost entirely of completing word-finds and crossword puzzles. The teacher of another class literally read the answers the day before the test; all you had to do was memorize “1. A, 2. C, 3. E…” etc. It was essentially possible to ace the class without having any knowledge of the subject matter. My best friend and I resorted to creating a race on test day – our aim was to see who could fill in the pre-memorized multiple choice answers fastest and leap to the front of the room to be the first to turn in the test.

My point is that maybe I have such a vivid memory of the essay contest because it was one of the few serious papers I was ever required to write in my pre-college education. But even more than that, I remember being struck by the instructions… They not only offered an invitation, but a directive, to think for myself – to think carefully about a weighty topic. So I did. I thought and wrote, and thought and wrote, and thought and wrote. I struggled through quite a few days and drafts figuring out what I really believed and wanted to say.

I still have the essay in a box that has been packed away; I wish I had access to it now so I could include some actual quotes, but I remember the gist. I basically said the same thing I’m saying here, 30 years later… That despite not liking the idea or sight of people burning the American flag, I don’t think it should be a crime or grounds for threatening retaliatory behavior.

At first I considered the flag “just a piece of fabric,” but as I kept thinking and writing, I realized that wasn’t quite true. The American flag is more than a piece of fabric; it’s a symbol, just like the National Anthem is more than just a song. These symbols are important pieces of our collective culture. Over generations we’ve imbued them with layers of meaning that help us understand and represent ourselves.

My essay suggested that the flag burning issue was a classic case of symbol vs. what the symbol stands for. The symbol stands for liberty and freedom. It stands for a country that is great because it allows us to both revere and burn our flag. I argued, in my young way, that true patriotism wasn’t simply waving a flag, but standing up for the principals the flag represents. I thought that if someone was angry enough or dissatisfied enough to burn a symbol of our country and freedom, they must have something meaningful to say and that we should listen.

I submitted my essay somewhat cautiously, knowing that my thoughts might not be popular with everyone. I figured what the judges probably wanted to hear was how terrible it is to burn the flag and that it should definitely be considered a crime. I didn’t think there was even a remote possibility that I would win, but I did.

I attended an awards ceremony where I received a certificate and a little sparkly American flag lapel pin. I kept the pin in my jewelry box over the years. I never wore it, but it made me smile. Every time I saw it, I remembered how hard I worked on the essay and that the best award was what I learned through my own thought process.

Unfortunately, many years later, I finally had an occasion to wear my flag pin. It was with deep sadness, fear, and yes, patriotism, that I removed it from its place in my jewelry box and affixed it to my jacket after September 11, 2001. I wore it for weeks, maybe even months, before tucking it safely back into my jewelry box. I love the pin. Not because it’s particularly pretty or valuable, but because it’s an important symbol to me on both patriotic and personal levels.

Patriotism isn’t about shouting “God bless America” the loudest or waving a flag the hardest – those things are easy to do. True patriotism is hard; it not only invites us, but requires us to think critically, and to truly honor our symbols by seeing beyond them to the values and principles they represent and to behave accordingly, even if that means the symbols themselves get a little banged up in the process. They’ll always be there, waiting to do their symbolic work, just like the little flag pin in my jewelry box. But if we forget or ignore our responsibility to the underlying values and principles, there won’t be any reason left for their existence.