Sexual Abuse in the 70’s–One Story

I could tell a few stories, but I’ve chosen the one that pains me, personally, the least. One where I am no longer in contact with anyone involved, so I am least likely to cause pain to others. At the same time, in many ways, it’s pretty horrible when you think about it.

The summer between 5th and 6th grade was typical of suburbia in 1973. I roamed the neighborhood with a small pack of other kids all day long. At lunch we’d converge at someone’s house, and whichever mom was there fed us peanut butter or bologna sandwiches and sent us back out into the sunshine. Along about dinner time, moms would step out onto porches and shout children’s names. Only vowels carry at those distances, so when a mom was heard, we all listened intently. “EEEEEEEE–ahhhhhhh,” was Lisa, “AAAAAAAAH–aaaaaaaah,” was me, and so on.

After dinner, as dusk crept over the backyards, we played games of Red-light, Green-light and Mother May I. After dark, we moved on to Truth or Dare. We were very innocent back then. Truth was questions like “Have you ever stolen anything?” or “Have you ever told a friend’s secret?” Dare usually involved ringing someone’s doorbell and running away or filching cookies for everyone from home.

The family next to me was big–five kids. The oldest was boy a year younger than me, then three girls, followed by another boy still in diapers. The older boy (I’ll call him Jack) and I were friends, and one night as we played our innocent game of Truth or Dare, his father joined us. The dad dared Jack to go to the far side of the dark yard and count planes flying overhead for five minutes. With Jack on the other side of the yard, the dad said he had a dare for me. I told him it didn’t work that way; I was supposed to choose. He said he was changing the rules. He told me I was very mature for a ten-year-old. I explained that I was almost 11, so you know, of course I was pretty mature. Eleven. His dare was for me to lie down and let him walk his fingers over my body. I was to tell him which place excited me most.

Gross! I said no. He said, “C’mon, I thought you were so mature.” I said I thought I’d better go home, and he grabbed my wrist–hard–gave me this fierce look, and said, “This is our secret. Do not tell anyone.” Well, nothing had actually happened, and he kind of scared me, so I didn’t tell.

Later that summer a bunch of us had finished lunch at Jack’s house. It must have been a weekend, because the dad was home during the day. One of the neighborhood girls, a few years younger than me, said she had to go to the bathroom and asked me to go with her. I asked why, and she said she didn’t like going to the bathroom at Jack’s house alone. I was a kid. No red flags showed up for me. Who knows why little kids do anything? I said sure and sat on the side of the tub talking to her while she peed.

Pop! went the lock of the door, and in walked Jack’s dad with the skinny little pen knife he’d used to pick the simple bathroom door lock. The other girl screamed, and I jumped off the tub to push Jack’s dad out of the bathroom. He said, “I just wondered what you two were up to.”

“Going to the bathroom!” I shouted. He was much bigger than me, of course, so I couldn’t budge him. The neighbor girl pulled her pants up without even wiping, and we ran out to where all the other kids were. We said nothing.

At the end of the summer, my mother came to me and said Jack’s dad was upset with me because I had told Jack “the facts of life.” I told her I had not, which was true. I had only told him about the baby chick unit he would get to do in 5th grade. It was a unit where the class had chicken eggs in an incubator. Periodically the teacher would carefully cut a hole in one so we could see the stages of development. Eventually, the eggs that hadn’t been sacrificed for science hatched into fluffy, peeping, yellow chicks. It was pretty cool. Anyway, I said, after the stuff Jack’s dad had done, he had no business getting mad at me. “What?” my mother asked.

So I told her about Truth or Dare and the bathroom. She told my dad. Now, my dad was maybe 5’10” and not muscular. He was also an introverted electrical engineer. Jack’s dad was huge and loud and pretty intimidating. My dad went next door and asked Jack’s dad to step outside, in part because he wasn’t entirely sure Jack’s dad wouldn’t get violent behind closed doors, and in part to keep Jack’s family from overhearing the conversation.

When my dad got home, he was visibly upset. (My dad was seldom visibly upset. He was always calm and soft-spoken.) Jack’s dad had not denied what I’d said. He’d only claimed that he didn’t recall these incidents. “If someone claimed I did these things, I would know I hadn’t done them,” Dad said. “It wouldn’t be a matter of whether or not I recalled them.”

My mom spoke to all the other moms of little girls on the block, who in turn spoke to their daughters. Of course, now I know that pedophiles who prey on prepubescent children often do not have a preferred sex of child. It is only the hairless, immature body that is the object of desire. Those were more innocent times. I think the idea that Jack’s dad might also prey upon boys was inconceivable to the adults around me. Long story short, Jack’s dad had touched, peeped at, or otherwise behaved inappropriately toward every little girl on the block. Every. Single. One.

The adults conferred, and the consensus was this: No way could Jack’s mother, a stay-at-home mom in the 1970’s, ever hope to get a job that would support her and five children. Turning Jack’s dad in and having him go to jail was not an option. So little girls were forbidden to ever play at Jack’s house when his dad was home. That was it.

Jack had three little sisters.

I think the idea that a man might prey upon his own children was inconceivable. We kept using that word. I do not think it means what we thought it meant.

A year later, my parents divorced and I moved. I never saw Jack or any of his family again. If they’d stayed in the old neighborhood, we would have ended up in high school together, but we didn’t, so they must have gone somewhere. Did the little girls in their new neighborhood, or his daughters, or possibly even his sons, ever tell?

Posted in Life, the Universe, and Everything | 2 Comments

Maybe, Maybe Not

As a certified control freak, I do not do uncertainty well. If a tsunami is coming, I can plan for that or brace myself. If a tsunami washes over  me unexpectedly, well, I’m in it now, so all I can do is swim or drown, and which one it will be is going to be pretty clear pretty quick. But if a tsunami may be coming, but maybe not…

Or if something great is coming, even if it’s a lot of work, like a wedding, there are a lot of moving pieces, but I can organize the hell out of it, so it’s stressful, but there’s an outlet.

But man, this thing of selling a house. A house you weren’t ready to sell, so you know there are issues, but the only thing you can do is try to price it right and pray… And that last thing really doesn’t help when you don’t believe in an interventionist God. I mean, if there’s an interventionist God, it really needs to be working on a lot bigger things than the sale of my house.

Thank God I’m not teaching right now. I have the kind of flexible schedule that allows me to run home and get the dogs for showings. I can work in inspections and that kind of thing. Plus education feels like one huge, deep pool of uncertainty right now, so if I were teaching, I’d probably be gibbering to myself in a corner.

There’s nothing to do about it. I keep telling myself this, but I seem to be awash in stress hormones anyway. That’s it. If you were hoping for insights on how to deal with the stress of uncertainty, I got nothin’.

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Back to School After a Shooting

Between a conversation with a Marshall teacher last week and another with a mental health care worker in Parkland, it’s clear that teachers in schools recently affected by gun violence are thinking about going back to school. Some are contemplating that first year back after the summer.

The summer after a shooting is a mixed bag. You miss your colleagues and have been worried about your students. You feel a little like a lifeline was severed, even as you are so relieved to have some of the pressure off. A colleague of mine put it best in May of 1999: “I just want to come have breakfast with you all every morning this summer. We can just be together, eat breakfast, and go home.” That would have been perfect.

I could write pages and pages about the first year, but instead, I’m going to condense to the most important things I can think of off-the-cuff:

  • You know that “new normal” everyone tells you is coming? It ain’t coming this year. And that’s a good thing, because this is going to be a hard, hard year. We kept stopping and looking at each other and asking, “My God, is this the new normal? Because if it is, I want off the ride. Now.” It is not the new normal. Give it a few years.
  • Personally, I recommend finding a good therapist. My husband was an awesome support system, and I was sure I could make it without a lot of outside help. (I didn’t really gel with the therapist I tried; I should have kept looking). The thing is, I didn’t really take into account what supporting me was costing my husband. Turns out it was a hell of a lot.
  • On that note: Form support groups for partners and spouses. The teachers are going to be hard to deal with, especially at home after giving everything they have at school all day. Partners need a place to vent where everyone gets it and no one judges because they are sick and tired of their messed-up partner/spouse.
  • You won’t be messed-up forever. I’ll say it again: You won’t be messed-up forever. Say it with me: We won’t be messed-up forever.
  • You will mostly be a basket case this year. It is not your new normal, and you won’t be messed-up forever.
  • You and the kids will hug and cry a lot. It’s OK. One time I was crying in the girls’ bathroom with a student while two other girls put on makeup and barely seemed to notice us. It was our temporary normal. We all got each other through.
  • While you can’t fall apart in front of your students, it’s OK to get weepy, and it’s OK to be honest about your own feelings. It’s vital to be honest. When they see you acknowledge and express your feelings, you give them permission to acknowledge and express theirs. If this makes outsiders (i.e. anyone who wasn’t there with you) uncomfortable, tough shit for them. Do NOT let anyone tell you that you have to be Iron Man in front of the kids.
  • Cut back on the workload for you and the kids. Don’t dumb-down, but do strip down to the most essential learning. Everyone’s attention span is at a low. New learning is difficult for traumatized brains, and you won’t have energy for the usual grading and planning load. If anyone tells you that you must continue to deliver instruction as you always have, tell them to take a hike.
  • You’re going to struggle in a tug-of-war between compassion and standards, knowing that the kids need all the skills they need for college and career. This year, err on the side of compassion. Next year, up the expectations. If you go too long on the compassion thing, it’s hard to come back. It’s complicated.
  • High schools need to remember that freshmen are in a weird place. They may be traumatized by proximity and family connections. They may not. It’s hard for them to blend into high school already, but one bound by tragedy? Even harder. Help them out. Admin needs to facilitate this with great attention and intention.
  • Don’t let anyone give you a timeline to “get over it.” There’s no schedule. Besides, you’ll never get over it. In time, you will be OKI absolutely promise that—but you will never “get over it.”
  • Hug each other. Love each other. Forgive each other and yourselves. Forgive it all—the times you bite each other’s heads off, or you think someone did something inappropriate, or you don’t get someone’s feelings or they don’t get yours. Breathe in the pain, feel it, acknowledge it, don’t judge, and breathe out love.

If you are an educator who has survived a shooting, and you have other questions, leave it in the comments, email me (use the contact button above), or ask on Facebook. BTW, if you haven’t joined The Rebels Project and The Rebels Project for Educators on Facebook, look into it. The groups are nothing but support for survivors.

Posted in Columbine | 8 Comments

What’s Good About Facebook?

We have a love/hate relationship with this social media giant, don’t we? I see friends post about cleaning out their own friends list or unfriending because Facebook has made relationships toxic.  The news is rife with stories of data mining, privacy violations, and fake news. There is clickbait and cyberstalking. No wonder people check out for Lent or a host of other reasons.

But I see something else more often. I see people post their vulnerabilities. Expressions of depression or failure or pain. I’ve watched names shift as young people struggle with their identity and gender expression. And I know some see this as TMI, too much sharing, all that. But when I see these posts, I hear, “I am fundamentally flawed. Does anyone love me anyway?” And I see comments that express love and support. I see numbers ticking up next to tiny hearts and thumbs up. I see little round faces shedding sympathetic tears.

I suppose I could be all cynical and say that support isn’t real, but I’m not cynical, and while I know the depth of those responses is varied, I also know each one is a whispered, “I do. I love you anyway. Like you, I am fundamentally flawed, but I can offer some small measure of comfort, and so I will.”

There’s not a damned thing wrong with that. I know it does a lot of good sometimes.

To all my friends who have found themselves calling out into the wilderness of social media, “I am fundamentally flawed. Does anyone love me anyway?” I offer this poem, which was read in church this morning:

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.

meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

— Jellaludin Rumi,

translation by Coleman Barks


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Red for Ed

After a weekend at a Labor Notes conference, I sit here in contract negotiations and reflect upon the fact that I have never done the most important things in my life alone. Having and raising kids was a team effort, not just between my husband and me, but other friends and family, as well. My classroom is synergy between my students and me, and my colleagues have made a huge impact, too. Of course, there was the recall in 2015. There are bigger things on the horizon, and for me, they start with wearing red to school tomorrow.

In 2013, when I joined a fairly small group of people who were determined to keep three people from taking over our schools and undermining our kids, I knew a lot of people thought we were taking on a Sisyphean task. “What’s the point of wearing blue on Thursdays?” they asked. “That won’t make any difference.” Actually, blue Thursdays was the start of something big. Red Tuesdays are even bigger.

Red for Ed Tuesdays began in West Virginia. I had the opportunity to hear a number of West Virginia’s teachers last weekend. You know about West Virginia, right? The lowest paid educators from some of the most poorly funded schools in the country, when the state decided to make major incursions into their health insurance, the educators decided to do something. They started with Red for Ed.

Why? What difference could a bunch of red shirts make? Well, for one thing, it built solidarity. It told every educator who was frustrated and scared, both of losing health insurance they could afford and of getting in trouble for making a fuss, that they were not alone. Later, it let their leaders know how many people were prepared to take action.

Teachers don’t usually do things that will impact their classrooms unless they think the impact will ultimately be positive. The state legislature of West Virginia may have thought a bunch of educators in red shirts was no problem, but they soon learned differently. For one thing, it wasn’t just licensed staff. It was bus drivers, food service workers, paraprofessionals–you know, the people who make the everyday operations of a school possible.

Eventually, a bunch of harmless red shirts escalated into a strike from February 22-March 7. Health insurance is a work in progress, but the strike brought the legislature to the table prepared to offer a 5% raise. As I write this, the Oklahoma teachers (after following the Red for Ed Tuesday message set by West Virginia) are in their second week of striking.

Do you really think red shirts on Tuesdays won’t deliver a powerful message to Colorado elected leaders? I think at this point those shirts could make leaders sweat on sight.

Colorado is in the bottom 5 states for educator salaries. If you think that the Colorado State legislature should make education a budget priority, if you think Jeffco’s school board should raise teacher salaries before they fund new positions in the Ed Center, then you know what to do tomorrow and every Tuesday after until we see action. Will one red shirt make a difference? Probably not. Thousands of red shirts? That’s power.

And while I’m talking about power, if you want attracting and retaining quality teachers to be a priority in Jeffco, let’s start seeing more of us at negotiations on Mondays.

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There are seven weeks left in the final semester of my classroom career. It’s been a difficult year. Teaching ACE has always been a challenge, and there have been countless rewards. One of them has been the often hard-earned respect of my students.

For well over twenty years of teaching this class, I left the classroom door unlocked so students could find a space in the school that felt like home. They could come use a computer for another class or just get a little peace and quiet. In all of those years, I have never had a single incident of vandalism or theft. This year, I have had to lock my door during lunch because of things being stolen from my office and issues with computers.

It is not uncommon at the beginning of the year to have to teach my students the basics of showing respect. Getting them to understand that promptness is a sign of respect. That owning it when you make a mistake is a strength and a step toward relationship building. One of the incredible rewards come spring has been looking out at kids who get to class on time and take responsibility in ways they didn’t before. There have always been kids who didn’t reach that point, but they were the exception, not the rule.

This year…

Don’t get me wrong. I do have some very respectful kids trying hard to get their lives on track. I often wonder if they get tired of walking into a classroom every day where respect is so undervalued by so many of their classmates.

I don’t know what’s changed. Is it me? Am I just tired and more sensitive than I used to be? Is it the world of adults that kids are modeling? A president who accepts no responsibility for anything? They come from rough backgrounds, and I get that, but I’ve had lots of students from rough backgrounds, and somehow we managed to eke out solid relationships built on mutual respect. Many of my students this year consider themselves disrespected whenever they are corrected. A significant number of them lie and talk back without compunction. Despite a year of trying to build them up, they still don’t understand that expectations are, in themselves, a sign of my respect–respect for their intelligence and potential. I used to be able to convince most kids that this was the case.

The hearts of kids have not changed. One-on-one, I get along well with almost all of my kids. I hear them speak so genuinely of their desire to achieve, to make something of themselves, to be respected by their peers and teachers. Some have figured it out, and they are on their way. Most this year are saying all the right words alone in the ACE office with me or the ACE paraeducator, then going out into the room and intentionally messing up the cooperative games we play or refusing to do any sort of work that is challenging, perfectly happy to take the F, even in an environment where, if you try, you cannot fail.

I’m feeling sad in this last year of my career, and because it is the last, I am sadder still. I am proud of the students who are succeeding. I just wish I had managed to figure how to get more of them to that place.

Addendum (March 22)

I don’t give up. It’s just not in me. Today, my students and I worked together to really dive into the idea of respect, into the specifics of moral values (which are fixed) and rules (which are too often twisted). They seemed engaged. One kid said it was the best lesson all year. Did it make a difference? Tomorrow will tell…

Addendum (March 23): Nada. Sigh.

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To Arms?

Would I want to carry a gun in the classroom? I’ve been giving this some thought lately, in part because I’ve been answering this question for journalists, but more since I talked to my students about it Friday.

With journalists, I have started here: 1) The only way a gun is really of any use in a crisis is if it is loaded and on my person throughout the school day. 2) Given what I (and most teachers) wear, I cannot really conceal a weapon. 3) I am a 5’2”, 55-year-old woman. 4) Teenagers are developmentally impulsive. In a fit of pique, they are mostly just difficult, but a 6-foot, angry, impulsive boy can easily overcome me. 5) If I have a gun, and he takes it, you now have 6-foot, angry, impulsive boy with a gun he would not have otherwise had, and he is dangerous.

The response I often hear is that if I am not comfortable with a gun, I would not be made to carry one. Great. What if I decide that I am comfortable carrying a gun? How does that change any of the above? It doesn’t. It just means I’m armed and I have bad judgment.

That’s been my standard response, until I found myself talking to my students about it.

I looked into all their faces, and this is what I know: If one of my students pulled out a gun, I could not shoot him dead on the spot. Now, before you wonder whether or not I care about my other students, I want to ask you this: If your son or daughter pulled out a gun in the presence of your other children, could you shoot your child dead without hesitation? No? It’s no different for me. I would definitely hesitate. I would say, “Wait, Johnny, don’t make a decision that…”

And then I might well be dead, and that child would have a second loaded weapon that he did not have to begin with. And I’m sorry, but there would probably be other deaths to follow, and I’m even sorrier if they are any other children in that classroom that I love (which means any other child in that classroom, period). But if it’s your child who is holding the gun, and I don’t die, but manage to talk him down, you’ll be damned glad I couldn’t shoot.

If I have a gun, and I just shoot, none of us will ever know whether I could have talked him down, but that child’s parents and I will wonder for the rest of our lives, and honestly, mine would be pretty short, because I just couldn’t live with that. Then again, going through a shooting unarmed was very nearly the end of me anyway.

Now do you understand what you ask of a teacher when you ask her to carry a gun, or if you ask her not to?

This is why we have to do better at keeping guns out of kids’ hands. I don’t have immediate suggestions. Honestly, I don’t feel like I have enough information, but this whole “it’s too soon to talk about it,” and “don’t politicize it,” and our refusal to contextualize the Second Amendment (either in today’s terms or in the terms explicitly stated by the framers of the Constitution) is absurd.

Don’t ask me whether I love my students enough to defend them with a gun or too much to shoot one of them. Ask this country whether we love all of our children enough to get serious about objectively gathering the data we need to make good policy and then making good policy.

Posted in Columbine, Education, Life, the Universe, and Everything, Politics | 5 Comments

My Sometimes Solicited, Sometimes Unsolicited Advice

On Facebook, from friends with children going through the death of a beloved pet to fellow survivors facing the first anniversary of their shooting, I’m seeing all kinds of posts for how to get through the event. There’s lots of advice–breathe, meditate, do something to get your mind off of it–and none of it is bad. It’s just that some things are so bad they just make you feel really shitty, and I’m here to say there’s nothing wrong with feeling shitty about them.

There’s a certain amount of shame that goes with trying out all that good advice and still being miserable:

“What’s wrong with me? I’m trying to breathe, but I can’t because I’m so anxious. Other people just breathe their way through this. Why can’t I?” Look, breathing is important, and it can help, but if you’re dealing with recent trauma or a significant anniversary of trauma, can just be really hard to breathe.

“Go to a movie; get your mind off it.” If everything in the movie, even though it’s a comedy and everyone around you is laughing, makes you think of your pain, it’s because you’re in pain. If you break your leg, no one expects a movie, however funny, to furnish all your pain relief.

But even what I’m writing here can be shaming. If you’re getting through the anniversary or event pretty well, words like mine can make you think, “Why am I not wallowing in agony? Have I become desensitized? Did I ever even really care about the person or people (or pet) I lost? Will I be numb the rest of my life?”

Different brains process this stuff differently. Some people have to burn off the energy of their emotions, so they climb a 14,000 foot mountain or run a marathon. Some people can barely get out of bed.

My advice–listen to yourself. If you need to cry, cry. If you are all cried out and you need to laugh, watch a funny movie and laugh. But don’t worry if you cry in the middle of it, too. If you can’t seem to feel anything, don’t push it. I do some of my best purging of household stuff on days like that because I can be really objective about what to keep and what to cull.

The effects of really profound grief and trauma, like an assault or other act of violence that involved you, the loss of a child, that kind of thing, last a really long time. They just do. You never really get over it, so if people ask you when you’re going to do that–get over it–the answer is never. You’re going to learn to live with it, and that’s a long process. And that process looks different from survivor to survivor. Some of us are an obvious mess. Some of us look like we have our shit together on the outside, while secretly thinking of shoving our hands through a window and grating all the skin off our arms. And you know what–somehow, some way, some people manage this process pretty smoothly. I don’t know how they do it, but I don’t think it makes them insensitive or anyone else weak.

One more thing–it’s totally OK to ask for help. Trust me, the acting like you’re OK while secretly contemplating suicide will eventually bite in you the butt really hard. Think of yourself as a role model. Would you want someone in pain to look at you and say, “So-and-so did this alone, so I have to, too,” or would you rather they said, “If so-and-so got the therapy and/or meds they needed, maybe I should get help, too”?

So anyway, for anyone dealing with tough events and anniversaries, may you find peace–whether for a moment or a day.

Posted in Columbine, Life, the Universe, and Everything | 4 Comments


I have to admit, as I watch powerful men in all industries, from entertainment to higher education, tumble from their ivory towers in the #metoo movement, there are moments I have felt bewildered by it, or maybe that’s not the word. I’m not sure there is a word.

Please understand, this is not a justification or apology for anything these men have done. It is not a plea for clemency, as you will see.

I grew up in a world where I knew from a pretty early age that many (not all) men would see me as an object. I knew I had to be able to set firm boundaries and hold them. If those boundaries were breached, the message I consistently received was that the fault would be mine. It was the female condition, and no one seemed to think there was anything wrong with things being this way. Women didn’t like it; they decried being sex objects, but at the same time, we pretty much dealt with it. It was like having to drive somewhere in a blizzard because you had to get there or suffering through colds and fevers throughout life. It kind of sucked, but it was reality.

Am I the only one who thinks it kind of created a certain amount of Stockholm syndrome among women? Didn’t we just sort of reach a point where we felt it was the price of being female?

So I’m …flummoxed? Is that what I am? I’m just so shocked to see so many people of both sexes suddenly caring about what I grew up pretty much accepting as a fact of life. Like, there are real consequences—teeth—behind what used to be mere platitudes about respect for women.

And I guess…God, I know I’m going to get lambasted for saying this…I can imagine that men, especially men of a certain age, are flummoxed, as well. They grew up believing this was their right. It must feel like “suddenly” this once normal behavior is wrong. It feels like standards have shifted. I would argue the moral standard has always been there, but the societal standard was not.

I once had a conversation with a fellow speech coach about utilitarianism—the greatest good for the greatest number. He asserted that its chief weakness appeared when a majority inflicted pain on a minority, and he gave as an example a gang rape, which he asserted allowed the greatest good (sex) to the greatest number (the group of men). He was flummoxed—yes, that is the word—when I asserted that the rape was not good for the men. It may have been pleasurable, it may have imbued them with a sense of power, which they found satisfying, but good is a moral principle, in which case the rape was bad for everyone involved. He tried the attack again using the example of slavery, which I rebutted with the same argument. Slavery is immoral; therefore it cannot be good for anyone, even the apparent beneficiaries.

It is tempting to feel a bit sorry for the men who have been exposed and are being held accountable for what appears on the surface to be shifting standards in behavior, but the existence of so many men of all ages who have not engaged in this behavior speaks to our innate understanding of morality. The fact that society permits certain behaviors does not excuse us from moral responsibility for them.

In a time when so many people are getting away with so much greed and corruption, it is encouraging to see a fight for good going well.

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How Sweet It Is!

I cannot tell you how many times, especially between 2013 and 2015, I heard my colleagues bemoan how much the general public hates teachers. Many refused to participate in actions our union organized, from things as basic as wearing blue on Thursdays to bigger things like attending board meetings and hosting house parties, because they were so sure the public hated us.

A few brave souls, at first, waded into the troubled waters. They wore the blue, went to the meetings, held the parties, and they learned the truth–our students’ parents do trust us! They appreciate what we do and respect our expertise!

Word began to spread. The pictures of staff members in blue on Thursdays included more and more people. Teachers made signs and held them in front of schools, and then again on Wadsworth with all those wonderful, supportive community members. House parties sprang up all over the county. And then community decided to do something.

Remember that recall in 2015? Remember the rush? The joyous feeling that the people of Jeffco really do care about kids and really do understand that teachers only want what’s best for them?

Two years have passed, and last night’s election confirmed it: Our county decided to continue giving a chance to the three new board members to keep Jeffco moving forward. Why? Because educators and others who care about Jeffco kids knocked on doors, made phone calls, and got the word out. As I stood on all those doorsteps on four different Saturdays, nobody told me how much they hate the teachers’ union or teachers themselves. Over and over, they said that if the educators in Jeffco said these were the folks for the job, they’d vote for them, and vote for them they did!

Relax. Bask in that warm feeling. But remember, we’ll be asked to walk, knock, and talk again. No excuse-making! We know it makes a difference. You know you can make a difference, a difference that will ripple far beyond your life and touch the lives of nearly 85,000 children and the future ahead of them. Ask anyone who did the work for this election: It feels damn good!

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