Never say, "I told you so."

When I suggested a transition for your video, you laughed at the simplicity of my thinking. It was such an old trick and things don't work like that anymore. The next thing I know, I am watching that program and there it is, the transition I mentioned. I knew then that even though you were downplaying my contribution that you valued my opinion. But you know what I didn't say. I didn't say, "I told you so."

I have listened to you tell other people that my programs are broken to discredit me without mentioning my name specifically. I have heard you put down what I am saying in meetings as though I have no idea what is going on. I recognized that we needed a specific status and that certain training that will safeguard our careers would not happen until we fought for that status. I said it loud enough that someone up chain listened and gave us that status. It changed everything. It will change how our career field perceives us.


I mentioned that we needed to build a better on the job training function and that one of the PDs should be in charge of mentoring the troops consistently. It will mean they have to work harder to get what they need for their program and the quality of their work may suffer a bit but that I was willing to do that because it was needed. We needed to build a deep bench because if we continued to push our star player, he would eventually burn out and then where would we be. 


That was two years ago. Now they have elevated you to lead producer and I hear you telling other people that you are willing to be the training mentor in the fashion I suggested. I said nothing. It is a brilliant idea. We both know whose it was. It doesn't matter to me that I get the credit for it. What is important is that these young, willing, engaged people get lit on fire for this job so they will want to stay. So I hope that when you say it, someone lets it happen.


I told you I was certain you would hate the job of manager because it didn't have anything to do with what you are passionate about. Then when they foist it upon you for a short term, you hated it. You hated the bureaucracy, the paperwork, the endless meetings. You make a big deal about me not striving to perfect my craft. That's because you don't understand what I have molded my craft to be. You are phenomenal at what you do. You care meticulously about getting the imagery right. People respect you for your ability. I respect you for your ability, I will never be as good at it as you. I don't want to be. But please, please don't make the mistake of assuming that I am trying to be better than you at that.


I struggled for the last four years trying to get you to see what I was trying to do. I realize that it was off putting when I came here and announced unabashedly what my aspirations were. But I believe that we should have a work place where people feel comfortable talking about where they want to be in life. I believe there are ways to help people achieve. I believe that even if they don't go to Hollywood and become producers that they will take the communication skills we teach them with them forward in life. These skills are so valuable in any field. 


No matter what happens. No matter how many of my supposedly wayward ideas you pick up and carry, I am not going to say, "I told you so." I don't need to lower you to elevate my own reputation. The only person who needed to see that I was brilliant, was you. You showed me you believe that from the beginning. I recognize your need to be "top dog" and that is fine. But you don't see what I see and that is what separates us.

You look familiar.

The first thing people say to me when we meet is how I look like someone they know or have met before. This is a good quality to have when you are a journalist, simply because people will tell you things they might not tell any other stranger.

Lately though, I see myself that way. Like someone I used to know. Things have changed and it is hard to keep up with my thoughts anymore.

I listened to this guy talking loudly in my direction about his account on Tinder, directly to me about having all kinds of fruity alcohol for girls to come over and spend time at his house and only having responsibility every other weekend. All I could think about was the safety of my kid. She'd been invited to a pool party, a surprise birthday party for her friend. When I arrived to drop her off, the mom offered me a beer.

I made the choice to stay because I don't know their drinking habits well enough to know how responsible they would be with my daughter. I knew the guy who was talking to me was the birthday girl's dad and that he had recently divorced from her mom, who was there with her new boyfriend. This is drama in the making. So I stayed.

I stayed because people who drink at a child's birthday party at a pool is a safety issue. I know that guy was trying to use his charm and drop all kinds of hints but . . . everything felt wrong. These people were not my crowd. It feels weird to say that because I have always felt that all people are my crowd but they are not.

It feels elitist to say I do things differently and I don't know why I felt they weren't putting the kids first.

It isn't only things like that, though. Not long after I finished my degree, one of my friends accused me of looking down on her because she wasn't as educated as I am. I was trying to offer her resources trying to steer the dysfunction of her family that exploded in my kitchen on a sunny Sunday after church, back to a healthier situation for all of them. I thought about it later and I realized that she would never understand where I came from, that I had to work hard and sacrifice relationships and sleep and sanity to achieve what I achieved. That I spent so many bleary nights wondering if my coffee intake was going to cause me a heart attack even if the stress from worrying about it didn't.

I schlucked through two of the most damaging lessons about love I could have gone through. But I still try to keep my heart open though my hope occasionally wanes. Then I suffered professionally what many people take as a politically left leaning bent about women in leadership in the federal government.

And I have come to know that others may never truly understand how truly tired I am of forging a path through life. But I have to keep moving forward, even though I desperately want to find a place to rest. I have to keep moving forward because there is a small person who needs to learn that though she will suffer heartache, there is a way to overcome it. Needs someone to help her navigate the slough of emotions that she will have to sort as she meets life's challenges. Someone to teach her how to assess consequences for her life choices and balance whether the possible outcomes are worth what you have to give up to acheive them. Someone to fill in the rest of the phrase when she asks out loud, "What if I fail?" By adding, "What if you succeed?"

It isn't enough to buy her art lessons when she says she wants to be an artist, I have to expose her to the many things in the world that inspire the greatness she sees in herself that will get worn by time and torn by circumstances. Then turn all of that into something that connects with the soul of others who will identify with her vision of life. The will recognize something in her art that teaches her that on the outside, some of us may stand out, but on the inside we are all connected somehow. That the thing that people recognize in her is that little thing that makes them the same. That she will never look in the mirror and not recognize herself.

There is a lot of work to do, there is no time to rest.

The Coffee Club

My second job was as a dishwasher at a country café in a small, small Wyoming town. The woman who owned the place was that wonderful combination of country and girl. The kind of woman who can rope and tie a calf for branding in less than 8 seconds but also cries at Olympic Pairs Figure Skating.

She was older and her husband bought her the café because she retired from working the farm. The Senior Center was attached to the café and every day at noon there were a hoard of elderly country folks who would file in and commune over mass prepared meatloaf and potatoes and gross pudding deserts. (I hate pudding from a can.) For some of those people this was the only balanced meal they would get each day.

In the main café at breakfast, people would bring their unsuspecting friends in to try the "short stack" of pancakes. When the server would start to tell them the pancake is the size of a large pizza plate, their friend would shake their head in a knowing way. The price didn't suggest anything unusual but when the pancake was brought out, the unsuspecting friend's eyes would be the size of the pancake. Then realizing they'd ordered two was always a special treat.

The leftovers were scraped into a bucket and fed to the owner's dog later in the day. Any other dog would just look fat and happy but this was a working dog, he needed the extra calories. Table scraps were a necessity.

Of all the things I hated washing, I hated washing silverware the most. There was a lot of it. Even at home, to this day, I wash silverware first just to get it over with.

I never truly appreciated that place until now. I loved it when I was there but just now is the impact of what happened every day making sense.

In the morning, every morning, the owner would unlock the door but leave the lights off. My mom would be prepping for the day in the kitchen and the light from the kitchen provided just enough light to see the tables. They would trickle in one by one. They would sit quietly in the dark and drink coffee.

Most of them were farmers or ranchers. They would gather around the table, the server would bring them a cup of coffee and the unspoken conversation would commence. Every once in a while someone's wife would want to come along, just to see where they went every day. Those days were never as peaceful. Women have to fill the silence. I believe the term that was used to describe their chatter was "hen clucking". The wives just didn't get it.

Toward the end of an hour someone would grab the cup of dice and they would roll to see who was paying for everyone's coffee then they would get up and head off to start which ever chore starts their farming day. The owner would turn on the lights and the café was open.

Later in the morning they were all back around the same table only this time they would talk about their day. This time they might order breakfast. This time they told stories. My favorite was the one they called "the fisherman". He had retired some time before and spent most of his days fishing. He had a full set of false uppers he refused to glue in. When he told his big fish stories his teeth would bobble up and down in his mouth. It was awesome. Every one of those men aspired to be an old fisherman so this man was revered.

Over stories of broken fences and tractors, agreements were made, barns raised, help disbursed. It is where farm commerce happened with a knowing glance and a hand shake. This was a time when people gave their word and it meant something.

I look back at the last few years this venue has been largely silent and realize how much "hen clucking" has distracted me from an important part of the day. The part of the day you don't have to fill with noise. I realize that we all have to have some moments of silence. Maybe to gain some perspective, maybe to reflect. Maybe just to clear our heads. I have been so ambitious that I have forgotten the meaning of Ranch Hand coffee. So this morning in honor of the old fisherman and the farmers and the ranchers, I sit in my kitchen, with the glow of the lamp from the living room peeking around the corner and I am sipping my coffee in silence. Any minute an alarm will go off, the lights will come on and the responsibilities that color the day can begin. Until then I plan not to think. To let there be silence in my head.