Author: Glass

Fifty years ago, Wayne and I moved to Tucson, Arizona, eight-month Hillary in tow. We drove across the country from Maryland in our 1972 MGBGT, pulling a small tent trailer. So much for child safety seats: Hillary either slept and played in a swing seat basket on the back seat or sat in my lap. Fortunately, we all survived. We purchased a house ($19,900), using the VA loan Wayne earned through four years in the navy. No air conditioning, but we were young. And hot.

For three years, we taught at Green Fields School – he full time and me part. I did not yet have a degree. Working the hours we did in such a close environment, we got to know our students well. Despite tiny classes, the range of ability and interest was huge.  Quite a challenge for brand new teachers. Wayne taught history and Russian and coached various teams. I coached, taught PE and a non-credit, elective class called (are you ready for this?) People’s Awareness. It was the early 70s… We learned a great deal about our students and about ourselves.

We remain connected to some of our former students. Memories of many are vivid. We follow some through Facebook. Some have disappeared. A couple of favorites have died. There are some for which we have no idea of their whereabouts. It is highly likely they have no idea how much we cared about them then and now.

Robby Daniels was such a person. I do not recall the specifics of why he was living with his grandparents, but it is fair to say that the perception was his parents didn’t/couldn’t have him around. Tough for a teenage boy, or anyone, for that matter. He was not “easy” in a traditional sense. He was not a dedicated student nor a promising athlete, but he remains a favorite for three reasons. Two are things he did with and for our daughter; the third is what Robby taught me about the inside of a boy, as it were.

Green Fields School traditionally kicked off each school year  by taking the entire student body (grades 3-12, 80 students, max) for a 3-day camp out up Mt. Lemmon, a respite from the August heat. The trip was an all-hands-on-deck affair, with all faculty members in attendance and assigned to various camping, climbing, hiking duties. Because Wayne and I were both teachers, Hillary went with us. Frankly, I don’t recall who took care of her while I was belaying students all day, but I remember vividly the drive back down the mountain the last day.

 I was driving our Ford pickup (MGBGT blew an engine once we reached Tucson), with Hillary in a car seat. Robby Daniels and some other student rode in the pickup bed. The road is a very winding one, and about halfway through, Hillary threw up all over the place. There was not much I could do. No water to clean her up. No way she could continue in the car seat. So Robby snuggled her onto his chest and let her sleep, vomit-soaked clothes and all. He did not complain. He did not want special thanks. He simply took care of our little girl.

Fast forward eight months to baseball practice after school. Wayne coached. Hillary, by then fifteen months old and slow to walk, and I were watching practice. Suddenly she rose to her feet and trotted off to explore. Her very first steps. Second to notice after me was Robby Daniels, who hollered with huge delight for everyone to watch. He was thrilled. No sign of the contemptuous, withdrawn young man he could sometimes be.

I think of Robby Daniels frequently. Far more than he could possibly imagine. There have been many students along the way who allowed me a glimpse of their cores. For some, doing so is easy. For a child who feels abandoned, the walls can be nearly impenetrable. As adults, it is easy to stop at those walls and not even try to find the chinks. Robby let me in.  More accurately, Robby cared enough about a tiny child’s comfort and progress that he  let her in and ˆdidn’t even try to mask that warmth. Robby was the first of many who taught me to believe in the goodness of young people and to look for ways to give them a chance to do the right thing.

We loved working at GFS for three years. Loved our colleagues; loved the students; loved Tucson in general. We were challenged in good ways to learn as fast as we could how to be good teachers. We camped with kids, coached kids, traveled with kids, shared their lives with our small cadre of colleagues. Those years were invaluable and treasured. I finished my degree at The University of Arizona, and we had Allison three weeks prior to my graduation. Life was busy then and has been busy ever since.

We are back in Tucson. We bought a house for considerably more than $19,900 – and it’s air conditioned, so there is that. It feels like coming home. We have already reconnected with some folks with whom we taught five decades ago. We hope to reconnect with former students. I would love to know where Robby Daniels is. It’s about time I thank him for the gifts he gave me as a young teacher and mother.

Gary Wayne and I have been married for over 53 years. He is a wonderful man who contributes a great deal to our partnership on many levels. He does not “do” the taxes, nor has he bought the last couple of cars. I have. Therefore, I find it intensely annoying when the assumption on the parts of people like car dealerships and tax preparers, is that “Gary” is the one making the important decisions. Especially, when they have had next to no contact with said Gary, and all conversations, paperwork, and payments have been with me.

When I purchased a new car last spring, I was quite sure what I wanted, having done appropriate research, not to mention, the car was for me. Wayne has his own car. Having worked with the dealership before, I was also comfortable in placing the order after a test drive and a couple of related explorations. When it came time to do so, the salesman asked me if I didn’t want to check with my husband first. Unstated: to get his approval. No, I did not.

A few months later, when I wanted to schedule a service appointment for the car, the dealership had no record of me. What? They certainly were happy to accept my cash for total purpose. Oh, wait, could it be under another name? We have a Gary Glass… I cheerfully informed them that I was the owner of the car, and that unless their records were changed to reflect to whom communications should be directed, I would take all future business elsewhere. It remains to be seen whether or not they actually did so. Therefore, it remains to be seen if I will take my business elsewhere. Since I have now purchased two cars through them, it behooves them to pay attention. Yes, his name is on the title, secondarily, because, should anything happen to me, he will have automatic ownership. The flip applies to his car. I am listed, secondarily. Strangely enough, no communications related to that vehicle come addressed to me.

Similarly, apparently there is an assumption that taxes should be filed under the husband’s name. Tradition, I suppose. Why not assume that the person bringing in all the materials is an equal partner and list her name first?

Why, you might be asking, does this bother me? Because I don’t believe for one moment that if a man is purchasing a car, they risk losing his business by asking if he doesn’t want to consult with his wife before signing a contract. Because this is yet another example of unconscious – or conscious, for that matter – treatment of women as second-class citizens. I love the ad on television that depicts a woman going to a car dealership and having no one pay her any attention – until she pulls out a male puppet, whereupon the salesmen leap to their feet. She orders on-line and elsewhere.

We all do things unconsciously, falling into patterns created over centuries. It takes a concerted effort to be more even-handed. Do you think of all couples you know as male and female (Wayne and Ruth vs Ruth and Wayne)? I have been consciously trying to think in terms of whom I have known longer: Melinda and Rob, Nelson and Cindy, Mary and Dan, John and DeAnne. If we’ve met both at the same time, I work on switching out who comes first. Perhaps it doesn’t matter to you. It does to me, and I think it matters tremendously how we consider the equality of girls and boys, boys and girls for the future.

The ongoing, on-line “discussion” about banning books disturbs me on many levels. 

First, I believe that those who want to ban books because they might make their children “uncomfortable,” clearly show a complete disregard for the children who feel uncomfortable every day because of the ways they are represented — or invisible — in curricula.  In addition, for some reason they don’t trust their own children’s ability to think, and they must not trust their own parenting. I believe, from long experience, that most children, if freed from their parents’ fears and insecurities, are able to love and be loved in return. Why is it that the parents who first cry “bully” in schools are most often the biggest bullies themselves? What a better world this would be if we all operated from a position of gratitude and sharing rather than fear and greed. 

Recently, someone thoughtfully asked me the difference between banning, say Catcher in the Rye and Fifty Shades of Gray, and how could adults retain some sense of oversight? I  completely agree that the former is literature, and the latter is not. My response to her was the following:

 My first experience with a library was a book mobile in Ojai, California. 1st-3rd graders technically chose books from one side; 4th-6th from another. If you were “promoted” from one side to another early, your parents were aware. As a teacher, occasionally parents objected to a book that was required reading. I would talk to the parent, ask what they were afraid of, request that they read the book, and explain the perspective I would use in class. I never had a return parent. 

In “my” schools and classrooms, for independent reading (this was through middle school), kids were required to get parent approval for their choices. By high school, and even middle school, kids are going to find the books they want to read. How many men of our generation hid Playboy (and much worse) under their mattresses?  It is safe to say that children today have far more access to sources that pale beside books that are apparently on the banned list. We all read books that would have surprised our parents. The more books are banned, the more that makes them titillating to kids. 

While I, personally, would not find value of having 50 Shades in a school library,  and would, in fact, advise against it, if I saw my child or another student reading it, I would start a conversation. Also, I would much prefer that any of the suggested banned books I have seen — which don’t included 50 Shades in my experience — be read and discussed in a classroom or parent setting than in secret. The point of literature, controversial or not, is to prove good conversation and thought. We all should be reading books that make us stop and think, make us consider the experiences of others, help us learn appreciation and empathy. I cannot imagine a classroom in which 50 Shades would be deemed appropriate. If such exists, that is a problem.

A colleague of mine responded to my recent Facebook post with the following: 

“Also when a book has been used to educate kids for a long time, and is found to be objectionable, we should also interrogate ourselves as a nation and society. Are we moving away from the book because it has had unintended impact on a sub-group – kids of color, girls, lgbtq kids? Have we moved forward toward a place of greater enlightenment? Are we moving backwards in a reactionary manner? Perpetuating denial? Are we reacting across politics in the adult world?”   I appreciate and value his addition to the discussion. He is asking vital questions. There are times when books read for decades are no longer appropriate for relevant curricula.

Books are meant to inform, entertain, amuse, and add to our lives, whatever our ages. The notion of “banning” becomes a notion of “choice” as we grow older. On a much lighter note, shortly after it was published, I had heard 50 Shades of Gray  was popular but had no idea what it was about. My daughters, who are normally on target with such things, said I wouldn’t like it. That said, I bought a copy to take on a trip and was reading  it in the airport when an attractive, 30ish man plunked down beside me, glanced at the book and said, “My mom is reading that but won’t tell me what it’s about. What’s it about?” I slammed shut the book and blushed. I have heard that that 50 helped Kindle sales skyrocket so that people could read without anyone knowing what they were reading.

Kids will find ways to read what they want. Best we have some notion of what it is. Most kids can be trusted to respond appropriately to what they read. Most of that notion of “appropriate” comes from the messages they learn at home.

Many years ago, as a school year was just commencing, I unexpectedly had to pinch hit for a 7^th & 8^th grade social studies teacher. Joseph Lekuton was on his return from Kenya, where he had spent the summer with his family, when he heard that his village had been attacked. Understandably, he headed home immediately. There were no lesson plans.

Moved by Joseph’s situation and  not wanting to start anything that he couldn’t/wouldn’t  continue when he appeared, I created a short series of lessons that sticks with me today and would be as timely. I asked each student to interview a family member or friend of a different generation and ask what had been the ten most significant historical events in their lifetimes. For me, as for most of my generation, President Kennedy’s assassination and the first moon landing were givens. However, my school was in the outskirts of Washington, DC, and the students came from diverse and frequently international backgrounds. Many individual lists included events of which I was not aware – or if aware, only dimly. In short: US history and current events ignored much that was pivotal in other countries. Some of that is to be expected everywhere. The experience of seeing the collected lists, including the events that were repeated and those that were unique, was a valuable lesson in itself. For everyone.

Since that time, each generation has had to recognize its own seminal events. I’ve rarely stopped to wonder what they might have been, other than 9/11 and, now, COVID. For the young people of Jackson, Wyoming, my guess is that the evacuation of Afghanistan and the death of thirteen young marines toward the very end of that process will always rank high on their lists of most significant historical events. Rylee McCollum, killed at age twenty while serving his country, was a hometown boy.

Late on a Friday afternoon in September, hundreds, possibly thousands, of residents and tourists and those who simply happened to be here, gathered to welcome home the remains of Rylee. The crowd was diverse, clearly representing a continuum of political persuasions and attitudes. I worried that the occasion might become some sort of protest. I needn’t have. The moment the hearse bearing Rylee passed, the crowd spontaneously rose, stood at attention, and was absolutely silent until every last vehicle passed. Young children saluted. We were moved. We were united. We all paid tribute to a young man who gave his life in the service of his country. During a period of painful division, this was a moment of shared respect and unity. None who were there will forget it.

Today marks the sixteenth anniversary of my mother’s death. While she was nowhere near New Orleans, her passing coincided with the onslaught of Katrina. Even as we mourned her loss, my family was acutely aware that Mom had lived a very full and rewarding life, while thousands of other families were struggling to come to grips with very different ends. The same holds true as I write: In the wake of Hurricane Ida, the ongoing devastation of COVID-19, and the unimaginable losses in their wakes, my heart goes out to those in our country and others whose lives have been so violently disrupted.

My mother, Margaret Noble Appenzeller Huyler, was born and raised in Seoul, Korea, the daughter and granddaughter of Methodist missionaries. She left Korea at the age of sixteen to attend UC Berkeley and was not able to return to her homeland for the next thirty-six years. When she and I landed in Kimpo Airport in the fall of 1969, Mom’s eyes brimmed as she witnessed the Korean flag flying on Korean soil for the first time in her life. In the decades that followed, I had the privilege of returning with her on several occasions as her Appenzeller and Noble families were celebrated in extraordinary ways. The legacy they created remains profound.

Mom had an astute sense of people, of privilege, and of things beyond personal control. Some of that came from her childhood and from a deep faith that was founded during those same years. I rarely heard her complain; she had a sense of generosity and selflessness that I wish I could emulate more. She had a brilliant way of asking questions that made one reflect non-defensively. Her queries ran along the lines of, “Have you thought about how someone else might be feeling? How a decision now might play out in the future?” When I remember to do that — which is not always, unfortunately — it is so much easier to have productive conversations.

She was also a beautiful woman, though she never appeared to be aware of that beauty. After she died, I was both touched and amused by the confessions of former students of Dad’s – and by extension, hers – of their lifelong crushes on Mom. She managed to be both unreachable and respectful. Those stories were endearing.

In our 57 years together, my mother taught me to recognize and appreciate that our lives are filled with many blessings and to try to empathize with and respect the perspectives and experiences of others. She asked questions designed to make me step back and think. At the same time, the notions of honesty and integrity were essential to her decision-making. My brothers and I knew the only thing that could possibly diminish her support would have been if any of us had been dishonest or not protected others. It took me years to be able to stand up for myself — there was never a question that I would stand up for those who could not do so for themselves.

Since Mom died, both of our daughters have found and married wonderful men. We have a granddaughter who is in first grade. While Johanna and her great grandmother never had the opportunity to meet, they will always be connected. JoJo has already heard stories and seen photographs.  She will see and hear more. They share a similar sense of humor and a spirit of adventure. I miss Mom every day, even more so at this time of year. I will always be proud to be her daughter.

In the wake of Ida and the pandemic, I am not sure what Mom would have done in terms of distant outreach. I do know that she would have gone to great lengths to protect others and to remind us to be grateful for what we have. She would have tried to appreciate the fears and sensitivities of those around her. She would have made clear that, convenient or not, serving the Greater Good was always a priority.

Thanks, Mom, for the heart and soul you shared so generously with so many. You were loved. You are loved. 

There is a running joke in my family and among friends that my nickname should be, Forget Me Not. With remarkable frequency, I am the one whose package is delivered with eleven of the promised dozen somethings, my dinner plate arrives minus the ordered baked potato, I am skipped over on a waitlist, etc. The evening I explained this phenomenon to my brother, he scoffed at the notion – until all at the table were  served the drinks they had ordered, except me. I was served nothing. The waiter apologized and said he had somehow missed me.

This particular trait is generally more amusing than annoying. It can hardly be said of me that I am shy and retiring or that I don’t speak clearly or loudly. In fact… Sometimes, however,  being invisible takes on greater weight.

Last week I called the Toyota dealer from whom I have purchased two cars to make an appointment to have my Miata serviced. I bought the Mazda elsewhere, but I have had it serviced at this site. The young woman in the Service Department was pleasant, but she could find no record of me or my cars. The only way to track down my history, in fact, was to give her the VIN number. “Oh,” she said, “It’s under Gary Glass.” 

Huh. Really? I am the one who bought both cars and the only one who has brought any of them in for servicing. My husband’s name is on the title of both Toyotas because, should anything happen to me, he would not have to hassle with ownership questions. He has never written a check or used his credit card with them, nor has he scheduled any appointments. Yet the assumption, apparently, was that his name, not mine, was the appropriate one under which to file any records. No one asked me. No one asked him. He wasn’t even there when I finalized the purchase of the last vehicle – though the dealership did ask me if I didn’t want him to come in for final approval. The kind of question that could have motivated me to take my business elsewhere, had I not been two months into the process.

 I’m still a bit stunned, despite the fact that I should “know better.” What is it about our society that stillautomatically defers to men? In the future, I will make very clear that any business dealings with me must, in fact, be with me, or I will find another source. I’m tired of automatic relegation to second class citizenship. If you think it’s no big deal, consider Texas.

I was never going to be a teacher. My father was a teacher. I knew at an early age what was involved in being a good teacher. Plus, as already noted, my father was a teacher… Three years ago I retired, following 46 years as an educator: teacher, administrator, consultant. I could not have asked for a better, more fulfilling career. As each new academic year begins,  perhaps especially as I no longer carry school responsibilities, I stop to honor the teaching profession.

Our culture does not, as a whole, respect or appreciate teachers as they deserve, and, frankly, that ignorance plays out in ways that too many people never stop to consider. I vividly recall a conversation twenty-five years ago with an international demographer whom I was to introduce at a major conference. When I wondered aloud what the impact on prison populations might be if all children in the United States (and their parents) had access to early childhood education, he was stunned by the question. To his credit, his response was thoughtful, but this man, who had studied national demographic trends for several decades, had never even considered an educational perspective. 

Good teachers impact the lives of thousands of children over time. They make a difference in the ways young people learn to look at others and themselves. They teach children to think and communicate thoughtfully and critically, how to discern news that is fake from that which is real. Good teachers consistently and supportively insist that students be their best selves. They recognize and celebrate the uniqueness of each child and work extremely hard to develop the strengths and interests and ameliorate the weaknesses. Classrooms are microcosms of the societies around them. They should stress personal and group responsibility. 

The teachers who create those positive, interactive environments benefit their charges at the moment and far into the future. I am amazed when students I taught long ago share the effect that some experience had on them. Sometimes it was a specific lesson plan. Much more often, their memories center on bigger, ongoing conversations. They recall when a classmate’s father died unexpectedly and how we talked about it as a class, while their own parents didn’t know what to say. Neither did I, frankly, but when kids ask, teachers must respond. Former students refer to simulation exercises during which they were exposed to exclusion and its impact on everyone in the class. They laughingly remember learning how to diagram sentences, wondering how such drudgery (or delight, as some of them experienced it) would ever help them in life – then discovering the huge advantage they had when learning a foreign language or that their English grammar and writing skills were so much more advanced than their peers’ who had no clue about a participial phrase.

My classroom was my work, my playground, my joy, my challenge, my fulfillment. Hundreds of thousands of teachers around the country are assiduously planning for the school year ahead and the children for whom they will deeply care. The most significant way to help them is to give them our trust, support, and gratitude. The best educational experiences for children occur when parents and teachers share a partnership. Parents have insights into children’s personalities that are unique. So do teachers. Youngsters usually act differently at home than they do at school. And they know how to push parental buttons. If your child comes home with some fantastical account, stop and consider whether it makes any sense at all, before responding. If there is a legitimate problem, ask your child what s/he wants you to do about it. Frequently, they simply want you to listen. Most important, remember that teaching is a profession. A career that requires careful training and ongoing education. Educators deserve the same respect as doctors, lawyers, and CEOs. They make a difference.

Actually, it’s hot and smoky. Uncharacteristically so for Lake Tahoe. Today, a fine ash is falling, coating cars, decks and outside furniture.The Air Quality Index (AQI) registers 181 “Unhealthy. Everyone may begin to experience health impacts. Members of sensitive groups may experience more serious health impacts.” We are advised to wear masks when we are outside. Boat, paddle board, and kayak traffic on the lake is minimal, though blankets and chairs and umbrellas still dot the beaches. The water level for the lake has dropped significantly. Many boat ramps and piers are inaccessible. Most homes lack air conditioning. 

I have heard some whining. I get it: Long-planned family vacations have either been curtailed, postponed (again), or are definitely impacted by the smoke. Two weeks ago, the Reno Aces game for which we had tickets was cancelled because of smoke. So was “Shakespeare at Sand Harbor.”  River rafting has ceased, as I understand it. The California fires, which continue to rage out of control in multiple areas, are close; fortunately not such that we are ready to evacuate.

The same cannot be said for thousands of Californians. When I realize I am feeling a bit sorry for myself because of smoke, heat, and inconvenience, I try to remind myself of how fortunate we are simply to be inconvenienced. Truly, it’s difficult to imagine what it must be like to pack one’s most precious belongings in the face of terrifying flames and have to flee, not knowing if and when one’s abode will remain standing. I think of the treasures already lost for so many: photos, memories, pets, clothing, furniture, dream houses, connections to the past. Where does one return? How does a parent explain such losses to a child? How do parents contain their own shock and grief in ways that will not further traumatize their children? I can only imagine. For that, I must be grateful.

I think, daily, of the firefighters whose lives are on the line in so many areas. When others turn and flee, they stay and fight. Day after scorching day. And night. The internet informs me that the average annual salary for firefighters in the United States is not quite $49,000. For EMTs and Paramedics, it is slightly under $37,000.  Why is it that, as a country, we seem to undervalue the skills and courage and commitment of those we need most? These men and women put their lives at risk for us; their families are impacted every day. 

I don’t presume to know the answers to my own questions. I don’t want this conversation to become political. I simply encourage every single one of us to think and appreciate, daily, those whose lives and homes are on the line every day. To remember that there are Real People out there, terrified and suffering and grieving. Any one of them could be us. Let’s be grateful for small inconveniences and consider the impacts of genuine tragedy.

In so many ways, 2020 has been a dark cloud on our personal lives, on our nation, on the world. Over twelve million people in the US have tested positive over the past ten months; over 256 thousand have died. Untold numbers have lost their jobs and/or their homes. They experience daily food insecurity. They have not seen family or friends for months. Loss and chaos are very real elements of most people’s lives. Yet, amazingly, for most of us there are also the unexpected silver linings to which John Milton referred in the 1600s.

For me, Covid-19 has created the means and opportunity to reconnect with individuals and groups in ways I never imagined. Zoom has allowed me to transcend the barriers of isolation and no travel to gather on a regular basis with folks who are dear – and not near at all. In no particular order, other than how these events pop up through the course of a week:

• Every alternate Monday, up to seven couples of “church buddies” tune in to discuss everything from our families to politics to health to movies we have seen and books we have read. Some of these folks we met in 1971, when we first attended Dumbarton United Methodist Church in Georgetown, DC. We raised our children together. We lost parents, jobs, and pastors. At this point in our lives, we are far flung, geographically.
• Every third Tuesday, my two blood brothers (Colorado and Maine) and my AFS brother Germany check in with each other. We joke, we share family updates, we commiserate over politics and world news, we feel each other’s presence.
• Tuesdays each week include a prayer and conversation group of women that evolved from a much less formal in-person lunch gathering last winter. During these months, one woman lost a grandchild; one has suffered acute loneliness; two have sold and purchased new homes. Without fail, we listen to each other, offer unconditional love, make each other laugh.
• Eight female cousins (some not actually cousins, but we always forget that) carve out what has become a sacrosanct hour each Wednesday morning in Europe, Maine, Connecticut, DC, Maryland, Arizona, and Wyoming to provide critical support for each other. Sometimes, we just laugh. Three of our families have experienced Covid-19 personally, however, and one woman has had to make the difficult decision with her husband to find a residential facility to provide for the increasingly devastating effects of his Parkinson’s. We are not all aligned politically, and we have navigated the last several weeks with mutual respect and appreciation.
• Tuesdays and Thursdays are also the days, each week, when I attend Board committee meetings for an independent school in Sun Valley Idaho. As Trustees, we have been able to know exactly what is transpiring on and off campus over the course of ten unique and challenging months, and to provide feedback and assistance to the Head of School and his exceptional administration. We have been able to anticipate, discuss, and plan, rather than simply react.
• When the in-person version of our 50^th college reunion was postponed last May, a core group of my classmates and I began meeting virtually once a month. As with other crews, we live in a number of states and, speaking for myself, were mostly connected through annual Christmas cards and very rare phone calls.
• I have been able to rejoin two book groups, one based in Wyoming, one consisting of women in the DC area with whom I was colleagues well over twenty years ago.
• Last, but definitely not least, once again, work twice a week with a personal trainer  — the same one with whom I trained for ten years when I lived in Southern California. We wonder now why it never occurred to us to use FaceTime, our virtual preference, when I moved to Lake Tahoe. It’s highly likely I’m in better shape now than I was when the pandemic began.

None of these opportunities, these privileges, removes the pain and impacts of Covid-19. They are, however, precious silver linings to which I am committed in the future. We have all experienced new ways of processing and dealing with the world. We have found unexpected ways to solve problems, to relate, to express ourselves; different windows on the world. Personally, I appreciate relationships and connections more than ever, made easier, albeit very different, in remarkable ways by technology. Dark clouds? Definitely. Very real and unforgettable ones. Let’s never forget those same clouds came with silver linings. 

As we head into the final week of the 2020 Presidential race, I expect to hear ongoing references to the need for “law and order.” This is unlikely to be a peaceful process, either in the week to come or those immediately following. “Law and Order,” as defined by the current President, is not the answer. Mutual Respect is.

Each of us has had experiences with true leaders, whether they be in a classroom, captain or coach of a team, a school administrator, CEO of a corporation or a non-profit institution, or locally or nationally elected officials. They have more in common with each other than they have differences, regardless of their political party affiliation, religion, race, or even age. The  most significant trait and practice that effective leaders have in common is this: Respect. Respect for others and respect for themselves. They operate from a position of trust. That is their strength – not weapons or derision or caste or exclusion.  

True leaders do not have “discipline” or management problems. They do not fire or discredit anyone who disagrees with them. Law and order are not demands that are inflicted on others by force or the power of weapons. Law and order are, in fact, misnomers for what our current President claims he wants. If that were true, he would abide by the laws: He would wear a mask. He would not ask his “base” to congregate in huge numbers so that he could deride his opponents. He, as the theoretical leader of this country, would be the firstto follow the recommendations of his appointed advisors and to follow the law. As the coronavirus surges in our country, President Trump not only ignores the laws established in various areas, he blatantly encourages others to do the same. Meanwhile, Peaceful Black Lives Matter gatherings, according to Trump, are unlawful and are met with armed resistance.

Should anyone be interested in Trump’s relationship with the law, simply Google that topic. I was particularly struck by comments written by author, former federal prosecutor, and self-avowed “middle-of-the-road Republican,” James D. Zirin. Not somebody out to “get” the President because he is of a different political party, which is generally Trump’s go-to accusation. In his book, Plaintiff in Chief: A Portrait of Donald Trump in 3,500 Lawsuits, published in 2019, Mr. Zirin notes, “Trump saw litigation as being only about winning. He sued at the drop of a hat. He sued for sport; he sued to achieve control; and he sued to make a point. He sued as a means of destroying or silencing those who crossed him. He became a plaintiff in chief.”  

As observed in an article written by Robin Lindley in the April 20, 2020 issue of the ABA Journal, “Zirin argues that Trump has shown a chronic scorn for the law. ‘All this aberrant behavior would be problematic in a businessman,’ he writes. ‘But the implications of such conduct in a man who is the president of the United States are nothing less than terrifying.’”

Think back to an organization in which you felt safe, in which you felt comfortable with whomever was in charge. What, exactly, did “in charge” mean? If you truly felt comfortable and safe, quite likely it was because you understood expectations and parameters. Equally important, you felt heard and respected. You had a voice. It was no louder or softer than that of anyone else in the organization. You knew what to expect, knew what expected of you. You might have elected to be a very active participant or a more subdued one.  You had that freedom. Nobody was above the law. Nobody. It wasn’t about power. It was about respect.