More Mindful, Less Social

"Now you swear and kick and beg us that you're not a gamblin' man,
Then you find you're back in Vegas with a handle in your hand..."

–Steely Dan, Do It Again

It really is like being compelled to pull the handle again and again on a slot machine, this new world order of tech smart devices and social media.

Because I can be a winner this time. Every time, in fact. No gambler's fallacy here. I'll jump from writing this to the Facebook tab in my browser, to LinkedIn, and then to Twitter. When I'm on my phone or my iPad, Instagram is the other handle I'll pull.

Because I want to see what my friends and connections are posting, what my latest post likes and comments are, what's going on anywhere and everywhere at any given time.

And there I go again -- checking the social media channels.

This is highly disruptive and in 2020 I have to make a behavioral correction stat. Sure, I've been drinking the social media Kool-Aid since 2007ish, and I can still pull off writing in longer stretches without getting completely consumed by all the pops, buzzes and whirs. Although at times it is a struggle, I can pull off the deeper focused thinking that needs to happen with running a research business (called Talent Board and the Candidate Experience Awards), managing staff, all the project and planning work, and of course all the professional and personal writing I do. However, research has shown that every time we're interrupted from trying to focus on a deep-thinking task, self-inflicted or not, it can take up to 25 minutes to focus again --

Ha! Almost jumped to the social medias again -- but I didn't this time! Take that, you wicked slot machines!

Because there's also the focal time needed for my family. I'm a husband and father to two young daughters, and it's critical that I put the computer away, the phone down and close the iPad. Especially when my daughters remind me that I'm on these devices all -- the -- time. Which I'm not. I swear.

Thankfully we have lots of quality family time with non-tech activities (for a family that does spend their own ample time on their devices) and we continue to have our weekly family meetings, sharing with each other compliments, gratitude, appreciation and "noticing" -- something nice we notice about each other and/or ourselves that we share as a family, among other family-related agenda items (safety skills, managing emotions, what's on tap for the next week's calendar, etc.)

And then -- You go back, Jack, do it again, wheels turinin' 'round and 'round! Damn those social slot machines!

My wife and I mindfully meditate at least once a day, even if it's only for a minute or three. With so much daily disruption of 24/7 news, constant change everywhere and related repetitive stresses, it's surprising that we just don't go completely bonkers sometimes. Empowering ourselves with daily quiet, calm and thoughtful (and even thoughtless) stillness, somehow wrinkled into the non-stop go-go-go, is so vital for our minds, bodies, hearts and souls. We're very grateful that we can make mindful presence a priority.

The good news (I think) is that my device screen time is on average only 1-1.5 hours per day (it was down 15% last week -- thank you Christmas!). The average American screen time is 3+ hours per day. You should read this article by Kevin Roose, a columnist for Business and a writer-at-large for The New York Times Magazine. He was spending over 5 hours on his phone per day!

While there are positive outcomes of connecting with others down the street and around the world via your devices and social media, the addictive qualities of "always on" and the increased anxiety and depression for fear of not getting enough likes (and not being liked), as well as being bullied online no matter what you post, especially among our children and teens, really needs greater scrutiny by us as parents and the supposed adults in the room. Not to mention our compromised privacy, our personal information being sold to advertisers by the minute, and the now infamous continuous glut of fake news clogging our social arteries.

Ugh, I really do need to push away from my devices and social media slot machines much more often starting now -- and turn off all the constant notifications on all devices. It truly has rewired my brain more than I realized and pulling the slot machine handle again and again and again is affecting everything I do. I'm not going to call it a New Year's resolution, because only the act of doing and changing my behavior daily will make a difference to my psyche, my family, my team and my work in the long run. I do still need to use the socials everyday for work and my personal writing, but I will increase the frequency of other activities sans the tech.

So, let's go on a hike. Check. Did that with my wife this weekend. Let's play a game with the kids like Clue and Monopoly. Check. Did that with the kids over the holidays. Let's put a puzzle together. Check. Doing that with my wife since we got her new puzzles for Christmas (the one at the bottom of this piece is called "The Quest For Knowledge" -- so there you go). Let's close all the social tabs on my browser and turn my phone off so I can get my next research projects done. Check. Will do that starting tomorrow! More mindful, less social. I can dig that.

Wait a minute [checking the socials]. Damn you Facebook! Triple 7's! You go back, Jack, do it again...

Till the Dream Ignites: A Decade of GOTG

"Hold your fire
Keep it burning bright
Hold the flame
'Til the dream ignites
A spirit with a vision
Is a dream with a mission..."

–Rush, Mission

I can't believe I've been writing this blog for over a decade now. I actually started it in 2007, over a year before our oldest daughter Beatrice was born.

Since then I've been trying to figure out the world around me as an active participant, a husband and a father of two daughters, and how I react to the world day after day, year after year. Sometimes in a positive way, and other times, not so much.

Life is a work in progress and every day I strive to keep my fire burning bright. It's not always easy, but the more you let go of what holds you back, and the more you embrace your now again and again, the brighter your mission flames burn.

When I look back on my most popular posts in 2019, as well as throughout the past decade, that work in progress is quite evident, my fire stoked evermore.

Bless you all and thank you for stopping by sometimes. Happy 2020.

The top 10 GOTG posts of 2019:

1. In Susie's Shoes
2. Men of a Women's Age
3. My Birthday Wish
4. Like It's Your Last Day Ever
5. The Love and the Levity
6. The #MeToo Guys
7. The Act with the Artist
8. Why These Fires Start
9. Sink and Roll
10. What Will Remain and Become

The top 10 GOTG posts of the decade:

1. 2010 - I'll be damned. I am Dad. 
2. 2011 - Poop, Play-Doh and Cranky Pills
3. 2012 - The Lightness of Pop
4. 2013 - The Smile Game
5. 2014 - The Why's of Differences and Tolerance
6. 2015 - My Heart Ached For Her, For Me, For Us
7. 2016 - When the Choice Is Theirs
8. 2017 - To Have All the Time I Need
9. 2018 - I Believe
10. 2019 - In Susie's Shoes

Be a Rainbow Lullaby

"Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby..."

–The Wizard of Oz

She overheard them tell the butcher they didn't get paid until after Christmas, so no, he couldn't help them. They were just checking out the assortment of seafood in the case. That's when she bought $20 worth of crab meat for Christmas dinner.

She, being my wife, Amy. She told me this when she got home, not because she/we felt bad about buying the crab meat, but because the two men who were at counter weren't able to buy anything. She didn't know their story, whether they had families or not, only what she overheard them say briefly in that moment.

The poverty rate grew in 30% of counties between 2016 and 2018, according to a Stateline analysis of U.S. Census Bureau county estimates released this month. The poverty rate is the percentage of people in households earning less than the poverty threshold, currently $25,750 for a family of four.

Close to 13 million children residing in the United States live in families with incomes below the federal poverty line, a threshold shown to underestimate the financial needs of American households. In the United States, although child poverty has dropped by half over the past 50 years, the current level remains a serious problem.

And a staggering 2.5 million children are now homeless each year in America. This historic high represents one in every 30 children in the United States.

Amy and I both grew up poor, probably falling below and just above the poverty line at certain points throughout some of our childhoods, and I grew up with domestic violence and sexual abuse. Years later, before I met Amy, I was married without children, but severely in debt, eventually leading to bankruptcy and divorce. And then years after Amy and I were married, when Beatrice was only two and Bryce had just been born, things were really tight financially and we nearly lost our house, this during the tail end of the great recession.

We're grateful for every opportunity we've had -- for family, friends and peers who have supported along the way -- and we were able to put two dollar bills together to make ends meet like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life, one our favorite holiday movies. We're grateful for all the things we've afforded since, the places we've traveled to, the roof over our heads, the food on our table (including sometimes $20 worth of crab meat), and the community we live in (which had a poverty rate of just over 24% in 2017).

This holiday season (and throughout the year), if you can afford more than just getting by, then pay it forward somehow, some way. A little, a lot, somewhere in between -- whatever that amount is. It doesn't have to be money either; it could be time or donated goods. The past few years we've adopted a family experiencing domestic violence and buying them Christmas presents. This year Bryce's class also adopted a family in need and we bought a present for them.

A little, a lot or somewhere in between. Don't feel bad about what you have, but just know that little acts of giving gratitude and kindness can go a long way to help others experience the hopeful rainbow of dignity, stability, safety and a little happiness. However brief that may be for far too many today. Communities can only thrive when their members live inclusively together, helping and supporting each other -- not exclusively apart, regardless of the differences and misunderstandings that all too often drive us apart. We don't have to always like each other, because we don't, but we do have to see each other, to feel empathy for those who are less fortunate and to be grateful for when you are more so, because again, we are the others to each other, and many of us have been there.

However you celebrate this holiday season, be a rainbow lullaby for someone who needs it. Bless you all.

The Sharp N

"F-you, I'm America's son
This is where I come from..."

–Gary Clark Jr., This Land


She said she knew what the N-word was. We recoiled a bit, not quite visibility, but we definitely sat up straight inside ourselves. I don't remember there being any precursor context, or it ever coming up before, just the fact that one day our oldest Beatrice said she heard it and knew what it was.

As the girls have gotten older, obviously the realities of the world, and the power of words, both good and bad, have made their way into their consciousness. And, as each year of their lives progress, my wife Amy and I talk with them about what they're seen and heard around them.

Except that, in this case, it wasn't the same N-word we were thinking of.

"Where did you hear it?" we asked.

"Some kids at school said it," Bea said.

We hesitated, and then asked. "What did they say?"

"The N-word."

"What is that?"

She hesitated. "N-ucker."

Nucker? What? Oh wait, right. Rhymes with...

"Beatrice, thank you for telling us. But that's not what the N-word is. You're thinking of the F-word, which is also a really bad and demeaning word."

That's when, for the first time, we started talking about the current state of racism, what the real N-word is and means, and what it was and why it was. We have be teaching them about slavery and how black and brown people alike have been treated poorly throughout American history since they were little. Both girls listened and ask legitimate questions like "why would people do that" over and over, questions that aren't hard for us to discuss, but hard for us to answer being a white family who have not experienced systemic discrimination like non-whites have in this country and elsewhere.

We have read I am Abraham Lincoln, I am Harriet Tubman and I am Rosa Parks, all children's books tackling the subjects of slavery, racism and civil rights. We also read a book about Martin Luther King Jr.'s life. We also have a children's book about the American Presidents through President Obama, and his story is one of their favorites.

Then the girls got interested in a Netflix show called Family Reunions this year, a family comedy about a black family living in Atlanta. There was one show in particular that dealt with systemic racism and again prompted a dialogue with our girls.

Then it was recommended I read So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo. It opened my eyes more than ever before about what it's like being black in a white supremacist patriarchal society. So many big and little biases that we perpetuate over and over again that leave their marks like repetitive cuts that never heal. I highly recommend you all read it.

Then we went to Washington DC and Amy took them to the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History & Culture to continue their education. After that, we went to Mount Vernon and learned more about the beginning of this country and the slaves that worked for George Washington and his family. What affected me the most emotionally was the unmarked graveyard where the dead slaves were buried. No mark of humanity. Nothing. Just like visiting the Holocaust Museum with our girls, it was all very moving and made us think of who we've been and who we still are.

Hundreds of years of slavery, oppression and death. According to the Tuskegee Institute, 4,743 people were lynched between 1882 and 1968 in the United States, including 3,446 African Americans and 1,297 whites. More than 73 percent of lynchings in the post-Civil War period occurred in the Southern states.

And our children ask why. Why would people do this to each other? Why would they hate so much? Why would people this they are any different or better than any other person. Not to mention the history of Latinos in this country, Asian people, Middle Eastern people, Indian people, and of course the indigenous people of North America.

I can appreciate so much better now when a friend of mine, a black father of two who shares posts activities with his kids, just like I do. Like his latest of them bringing home a Christmas tree, and saying and none of us got arrested today, that it was a good day. He's not joking either. That's not something I ever say.

And then just this morning I shared with Beatrice that our city had its first African American mayor. She thought that was great, especially in a city where less than 2% of the population is black, which she doesn't realize, and I'd bet most community members don't realize. And he had been one of the two first black city councilmembers elected to city council.

That's where the story goes south. Because the other black city councilmember was one of the two councilmembers (the other is white) this year in my city (Santa Cruz) who had substantiated claims of disrespectful workplace conduct, harassment and bullying by five female city staffers including the outgoing city mayor. Claims that the black councilmember said were false and their fault, because they were white and he was black, and it was their racist beliefs that drove their claims. This was something I was smack dab in the middle of being the chair of the City Commission for the Prevention Against Women (CPVAW) earlier this year and our pushing for a public reprimand of the two men, which never happened.

Now, when I had a conversation about this with someone recently I know well, another woman, a white woman, a women who herself has experience traumatic workplace bullying and sexual harassment, her immediate reaction was: "There it is, someone playing the race card again. I'm so sick of that."

I was quite conflicted about this, because my point was in context to what I knew had transpired above -- these men, one black and one white, had multiple complaints against by five women. To me, it had nothing to do with black or white. It had to do with patriarchy and abuse of power in the workplace.

"Well," I said to her, "systemic racism is still pretty prevalent today. This was a specific context of him turning his behavior back around on the women as a defense mechanism."

"Well, maybe," she said.

No epiphanies from this conversation other than the latent prejudices we all carry with us. Social change is hard, and as equality incrementally increases for those who had it suppressed for so long, those in power for so long begin to feel oppressed, and claim reverse discrimination, which is absurd.

Even I got caught up in it, though, because although I stand by everything we did, the backlash of the councilmember supporters and the polarization and politicization of it all overwhelmed me, and I felt compelled to resign from the commission. And then after all that, the same black councilmember came after me online with untrue derogatory comments.

So what does all this mean? Someday I'll want to tell my girls the story and reconcile my past for their future as women, and what could happen in the workplace by the hands of other men, regardless of race or ethnicity. But there is still the complexity of systemic sexism and racism that intertwines in this ongoing narrative known as America, as well as the rest of the world. The more we understand our own shortcomings and biases, the more we can be a positive agents of change.

Like the hard C (the C-word) of sexism and violence against women I wrote about over two years ago, the N-word is the sharp N, and it's cut is as deep and mortal as it's been throughout our history. And history wields a multi-edged sword, where only the larger awareness of race, class and gender intersectionality can help us better understand and acknowledge our differences, and maybe, just maybe, stop the bleeding.

The Others to Each Other

"Music is a world within itself
With a language we all understand
With an equal opportunity
For all to sing, dance and clap their hands..."

–Stevie Wonder, Sir Duke

The middle of the road still holds. Or at least, it felt that way. This was more than evident than ever during our city's latest holiday parade. People smiling, clapping and waving on either side of Pacific Avenue, closed for the parade, individuals and families from all walks of life and all parts of the socioeconomic and political spectrums.

Considering how divisive the state of the political, social and culture wars still are, locally and globally, it's refreshing to have moments of peaceful community assembly and transitional healing. Especially for all our children watching the parade and participating in the parade. Children who become collateral damage of unsettling change. Children who become catalysts of transformative change.

Bryce, our youngest, just wanted to watch the parade with her mom. Amy, my wife, said she'd take Bryce down towards to the end of the parade route. She really wanted to see the flag girls in the various school bands that would traverse the parade route. Later, when Beatrice and I met up with them, Bea wanted me to march with her band, it was fascinating to watch Bryce transfixed by the flag girls (and boys -- yes, there were boys flagging too).

"Bryce," I called out to her.

She turned. Her and her older sister were standing on the street a few feet in front of us.

"You want to do that someday?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said with a big enthusiastic nod, and then went back to watching the parade.

I looked at Amy and we both smiled big. From flag girl to astronaut, dream big my daughter. Be whatever you want to be, I thought. 

Earlier, Amy and Bryce dropped Beatrice and I off at the start of the parade. Bea's been playing the flute this year, after changing from the trombone the year before, and is now in intermediate band. She loves it and has been mentoring beginning flute players as well. Her school's band combined with another to march together in the holiday parade and they all practiced so hard for weeks. One time when I picked up Bea from band practice after school, I got to watch them practice marching and playing their instruments. For those who have never done it, it isn't easy. I struggle talking and walking at the same time. Their awesome band teacher teaches both schools and truly inspires the kids.

In between talking with some of the other parents while we waited for the parade to begin, I watched Beatrice interact with her bandmates and her teacher. I was so proud. She was so much more comfortable in her own skin than I was at her age. Plus, her and the rest of the band sounded great, and watching them practice with the middle school band and the award-winning high school band before the parade started increased the parental pride even further.

"Bea, you should totally stay in band through middle school and high school. The high school has won a lot of awards this year," I said. "The more you play the better you get."

"I think I want to," she said.

"You like playing the flute, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"There you go."

Then we were off marching along the parade route, Bea's combined-school band alternating between Dr. Rock and Jingle Bells, each rotation seemingly sounding better than the last. Or, maybe I just wanted it to sound better, with the community around us cheering the kids on.

All us parents who traveled along with the band took multiple pictures and videos. The continuous rain we'd been experienced since Thanksgiving thankfully took a break. The community clapped and waved, we clapped and waved, some danced in the street like Bryce and even the chief of police, and for a couple of hours the local social spectrum shone like a rainy day rainbow. All the colors lighting up the kids faces, including our own, with the hope of diverse cohesion without denying the necessary friction of potential positive change our differences can make. In other words, civility doesn't have to be a weapon used to keep others down. It should celebrate the awareness of all the others, because we are the others to each other.

As Santa brought the holiday parade to an end, I cheered for the catalysts of transformative change.

Like Pinches of Empathic Cinnamon

She touched Angel Cakes and cried out. She had tried not to touch her by pulling her sleeve down over her hand, but her hand slipped out as she grabbed the elf named Angel Cakes from a shelf to move her to a chair.

"Oh no!"

Beatrice froze after she said it.

"What's wrong?" asked Bryce.

"I touched Angel Cakes!"

"Are you sure you did?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Dad, I need cinnamon!"

"Why?" I said.

Now, at this point I was in the middle of something semi-important on my computer and not really paying attention.

"Because I touched Angel Cakes. She'll lose her magical powers if I don't sprinkle cinnamon around her!"

Again Bryce tried to make her feel better. "Are you sure you touched her? Maybe you didn't."

"I did, Bryce! I did!"

"Beatrice, look up where the other spices are for the cinnamon," I said.

She looked. "Dad, I don't see it. We have to hurry!"

"Bea, the elf will be okay, just keep looking."

Of course, Mom had to be the one to come downstairs and find the cinnamon, which was actually in a place neither of us would've looked, which I realized afterwards was where we always kept it and I should've known. But again, I was doing something semi-important on my computer (making a new Christmas music playlist actually -- hey, that's important).

We had just gotten back from Thanksgiving at my sister's house and the shelf elves had appeared again in our house, coming out of elven hibernation at the North Pole since last Christmas. According to shelf-elf lore, or our daughters' version of the lore, you can't touch the red shelf elves with your hands or they'll lose their magical power. The others you can touch with bare hands, just not the red ones. Which is why you have to sprinkle cinnamon around the red elves, so they can get their magical powers back. The cinnamon is like a super-vitamin. After a little research, though, I didn't tell the girls that they must also write an apology letter to Santa Claus if they touch one of the elves. It's stressful and creepy enough that the elves move around every night with all our shelf-elfing shenanigans. No need to stress out the girls about being in hot water with Santa.

Even after that semi-traumatic shelf elf event, what I'm the most happy about are two things. The first is the fact that my family loves the holidays and we're all in with decorating and the festive and loving sentiments of the seasons. Even Bryce who fights it a little here and there when she'd rather be playing Minecraft, Roblox or watching silly YouTube videos. And I even broke our decorating tradition this year by hanging lights outside before Thanksgiving. Mercy me. That nearly caused a rift in the space-time continuum, but then we sealed the deal, or unsealed the universe, by listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving in addition to decorating early. Also, Beatrice just calls out to Alexa, "Alexa, play classic Christmas music!" Right on, Bea. In my defense, however, we're having a string of winter storms now, which we need, and I wouldn't have been able to decorate outside right after Thanksgiving like we usually do. They both also helped pick out gifts for a family experiencing domestic violence that we're again adopting this year.

The second thing I'm most happy about is the fact that our girls long to be with extended family and friends, to share continuous friendship, love and gratitude without selfish agenda or emotional baggage. Well, sometimes there's a selfish agenda when gift-getting is involved, but hey, they are still kids. However, they don't have the purposeful and painful distancing that comes with time and experience, when relationships can and do go awry and forgiveness is conditional. And although we are those adults with those experiences, we continue to foster positive growth and compassion for all, to be aware of our own feelings and their fluid context, as well as those of others, and encourage our girls to do the same. Our daughters remind us to look at extended family and friends and see wonderful human beings, people doing their personal best or trying to (including us), even if we don't always see eye to eye (and we sure as hell don't always see eye to eye), and every day our hearts and souls are a little fuller with them in our lives.

Even if it's only in little dashes year after year, like pinches of empathic cinnamon to keep our magical powers intact.

Love Letters

"Hold on, nothing's the same
Tell me why I feel this way
Life wouldn't be worth living without you..."

–Santana, Hold On

I wasn't sure what I did wrong. But I did something, because she was mad.

"Dad, why don't you listen to me the first time!"

That was Beatrice, our oldest daughter.

"Rude, Bea-Bea. Just rude."

That was Bryce, our youngest daughter.

I had picked them both up from school after their musical theater class where they were rehearsing a Frozen Sing-Along for Christmas.

"Dad, didn't you hear me the first time!"

Ah, right. I didn't listen to her. That's what I did wrong. Thinking about work after I had asked her about her day.

"Sorry, Bea. Just tell me again, please."

Silence.

"Come one, Bea. Just tell Dad," said Bryce.

Bryce has become my champion of late, and Beatrice champions Mom.

"I'll just wait and tell Mom," Bea said.

"Beatrice, just tell me again. I'm listening."

Silence. And then:

"Okay. Today I..."

Thinking about work again. So much to do. Big year coming in 2020.

"Dad, did you hear me?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Say that again."

"Dad! C'mon! You're not listening to me!"

"Dad, you need to listen to Beatrice."

Even Bryce couldn't have my back this time.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Please, tell me again."

Silence. Bea wouldn't talk with me the rest of the way home. Bryce tried to play with her, but got no response.

The ride home was less than 10 minutes, but the last few minutes were forever, because I did feel bad that I had disappointed. I do try to be present for my kids and sometimes it doesn't always work out that way. Sometimes the adulting in progress sweeps you away by worrying about the past and the future. Like driving your kids home, when you have to check the rearview mirror and keep looking forward in order to get everyone home safely. That shouldn't mean you compromise the present by not being present, but until a car is fully robotic and self-driving, then you definitely have to watch the road.

Still, no excuse for not listening to my daughter when I'm thinking about other things as well as driving. Productive multitasking may not be a scientific reality, but the idea of it is still a parental one. We got home and Beatrice fumed for awhile, not willing to talk about much, even with Mom. We all ate dinner together and then shortly after that, when Bryce and Mom went upstairs, Beatrice walked over to me.

"I'm sorry I was mad, Dad," she said. "I'm thankful for you."

She gave me a hug. My heart swelled and lifted me into the air. Sometimes this little human is mature beyond her years with an empathic awareness that so many adults woefully lack today.

"Thank you, Beatrice. I'm sorry I didn't listen. I'm grateful for you."

In fact, we've all been practicing purposeful thankfulness for well over a year now, where each week we make time to share compliments, gratitude, appreciation and "noticing" -- something nice we notice about each other and/or ourselves that we share as a family. Where we detach from our egos and empower the now again of mutual respect, love and understanding. We also write them down in a family journal as a remembrance of our gratitude.

Nothing will ever be the same again today or tomorrow or the next day. I will no doubt not listen again to my girls, and we all will have future misunderstandings, and yet, each and every day with my family is a love letter I mail to my heart, open with glee, and read again and again and again. Amen.

I am so grateful for them.

A Life-Lesson Letter for My Daughters

Dear Beatrice and Bryce,

I’m writing this letter for your future selves to read, to talk about a very serious subject for when you’re both young adults. 

Your mom and I hope you never experience what too many women, and men, still experience in the world every single day – being harassed, bullied, sexually assaulted and/or raped. Whether by a stranger, or more likely, by someone you know. A significant other, a supposed friend or family member, a classmate, a neighbor, a co-worker or a boss. Unfortunately, the list goes on and on, multiple iterations of the same tragic story. You may even have friends who have experienced one of the above. 

Yes, I said it was serious, and we hope we’ve helped arm you with the awareness, confidence, safety skills and courage to not allow anyone to overpower you because they want to. Especially because you are women, and especially by men (although women can harass other women, too).

It can all start simply enough, with someone bugging you repeatedly that’s demeaning to you over time, who attempts to put you in your place, that you’re not good enough or smart enough, and never will be. Or, someone who pushes you to do something without your consent because they say they like you and think you’re attractive. When it’s repetitive harassment and/or physical assault, it can eat away at your psyche, your very heart and soul, until there’s nothing left but chronic fear and unhappiness, depression and the rock bottom of self-worth. 

If you let it. You don’t have to let it, though. Ever. Whomever is doing it do you, you can use that Kidpower Mom taught us all those years ago and say “Stop!” Then you throw away those intentionally hurtful words and actions and you get yourself in a safe space. Whether at home or at work, you do not have to accept it, even when it’s enabled by others around you who say “but that’s just the way he/she talks to others; it’s the way he/she expresses love; he/she doesn’t really mean it; don’t take it personally; just deal with it, because that’s life and you need this job.”

That’s all bullshit. Sorry, but it is. And no matter how much you think you like someone, if they bully and harass you, or try to force you to do something sexual you do not want to do, then it’s time to get out, to get away to safety. You have the power to say “stop” and “no” – even if you first say yes.

This also means reporting it if it’s at work or calling it out if you have friends or people you work with who are experiencing it. Or reporting it to the police when it’s a crime against you or someone you know. Don’t try to hide it because you’re ashamed or look the other way when you witness it elsewhere, because someday you could be in a situation where you’ll need the support of others to help shine a light on it. Looking the other way is one of the ways that empowers abusive behavior.

This isn’t easy to do and standing up for yourself and others can sometimes come with heavy social, emotional and psychological costs. You could lose the very people you thought were your friends. You could lose your job. You may want to quit your job. You could be fearful of intimacy for a long time to come. You could be socially chastised by those who support the very individuals who have harassed you, and this is a life lesson I want to share with you both. 

You probably don’t remember, but years ago I was on the Santa Cruz City Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women (CPVAW). Your mom encouraged me to apply for the commission, because I had already been an advocate for violence awareness and prevention. 

This commission was all about preventing sexual harassment, sexual assault and rape in our community and holding those accountable who perpetrated such activities. I was only one of two men on the commission during my tenure. I learned a lot and was proud of the work we did and even served as chair during the last year I served. 

But then our commission got swept into local politics, something we never intended to happen. There were five women – three city staff employees and two city council members – who had come forward and filed multiple workplace harassment complaints against two other city councilmembers, both men. And one of the five women was also the city staff coordinator for our commission.

The city paid for an investigation that did substantiate there was in fact a pervasive pattern of workplace harassment and bullying by these two male councilmembers, along with a contingent of their supporters who worked with and for them. While the investigation concluded that there wasn’t any gender bias in these workplace harassment complaints, all who came forward were women, and none of the complaints were found to be false. 

Now, imagine multiple city council meetings where men and women in our community repeatedly blamed and shamed the women who had come forward, accusing them of the wrongdoing, that is was there fault that these two male councilmembers were being accused because they just wanted the men removed from office. Their supporters were vocal about various conspiracy theories of why these women had come forward in the first place, that it was all political in the end. And that because one of the men were black, it became about race as well. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Our commission experienced the same community backlash because the majority of us continued to stand by the five women. We pushed for what’s called censure, a public reprimand of the two councilmembers, but one in which the council majority didn’t pass. 

We were still berated over and over again with hateful rhetoric. That we were wrong to support these women and that we should only support women who are sexually assaulted and raped. That we should leave workplace harassment and bullying for the workplace itself to deal with. 

We were also literally threatened that they would “come after us” if we continued to support the women who had come forward. Especially me, being the only male and the chair. The Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women being threatened with violence because of women coming forward about workplace violence. Can you believe it? Egregious and absurd, but it happened.

The harassment continued online, and sadly, one of the two accused councilmembers wrote slanderous posts on his Facebook page about the commission and me personally. 

But even after all of that, all I could think about after being threatened by them was you two and your mom. Would my family be in danger now? Would they continue to harass us incessantly like they did to those women and their families who had come forward? 

What if either of you had something happen to you someday and then you come forward so those who hurt you could be held accountable, and this was the hateful backlash you received? That it was all your fault? Because there was no way those you accused could do something like that?

No wonder so many who are harassed and abused or worse don’t come forward. Also note that false reporting happens only about 2%-10% of the time, and that’s probably high because of those who actually don’t report. 

While I’ll always stand by all the work the commission did back then, at that time I had had enough of the harassment and bullying and had to step down. It adversely impacted our family life and my work life (again, you probably don’t remember how stressed I was back then, but your mom does). Of course, my personal woes were nothing compared to anyone who’s been victimized repeatedly, sexually assaulted and/or raped. 

My dear daughters, I implore you to always believe those who come forward and help be a voice for those who struggle to find theirs. Sexual assault and rape are horrific crimes, but don’t discount all other forms of controlling harassment and bullying just because they’re not rape. Many times, it’s this very behavior that’s a precursor to other forms of abuse and violence and can have just as much of a lasting traumatic effect. I grew up with domestic violence and sexual abuse, and so I know firsthand the lasting effects. That’s another story I’ll tell you someday. 

I’m no hero, but I do want both of you to know that my commitment to preventing violence of all kinds against women, men, girls and boys, including harassment and bullying, has never faltered and never will. I know you will continue to be committed as well. 

I love you both very much. 

Dad

Hearts Wide Open

It wasn’t the fact that she had played better than ever during the first ever night game. That was truly a pleasure to watch, especially after her playing for four years and now playing against other girls who were much faster and much better at dribbling and passing the soccer ball.

No, it was what happened after the game. What happens after every game when we’re leaving.

“Great job, Beatrice.”

“You almost got one, Beatrice.”

“See you later, Beatrice.”

And more of that sentiment, from her teammates and the parents. This is still recreational soccer, mind you, but the level of play now at the U12 level is more competitive than I ever saw coaching U8 or U10 girls soccer. Of course, Beatrice responds in kind, thanking her teammates and saying good job and see you next time.

It’s a testament to her coaches and her teammates, and the parents, too, supporting their girls at every game.

But it’s also a testament to Bea’s big heart. She’s compassionate, confident, loving, diplomatic, empathic, understanding, and it really shows in every relationship she has. Her teachers concur. Her friends concur. Her sister concurs. Her parents concur.

Unfortunately she also stresses about things like I did when I was her age, where she internalizes her angst after fixating on something that is stressing her out. Like math and reading, where she struggles academically. The stress keeps her up at night and she can’t sleep, just like I remember doing, and still experience today sometimes.

She can now articulate her angst, though, much better than I ever could. And she doesn’t like feeling that way either, like she has fever that spikes that she longs to break and be free of. We share these blue genes, but she doesn’t like to wear them at all, while I grew used to wearing them (out) over and over as my defense mechanism growing up, battling periodic depression as a reaction to stressful situations. Resulting sometimes in panic attacks that are thankfully a hazy distance these days.

Regardless, Bea certainly doesn’t shy away from trying new things and giving it her all. Like playing flute in intermediate band now. Last year she played the trombone, and then changed her mind, wanting to play the flute instead, to share in the melody instead of the bass back beat. We told her that she’d have to probably start in beginning again unless we got her lessons over the summer, and she practiced, which we did and she did. Then we encouraged her to talk with her band teacher and to “try out” for intermediate band, which she did, and had learned enough to earn her spot. She's pretty good too, but she didn’t stop there. The band teacher likes to have kids from intermediate band help mentor and practice with beginning band, and it’s something Beatrice asked to do. Loves doing it in fact.

And then there’s after-school musical theater, where both her and her younger sister Bryce have been participating in for the past two years. And then there’s the environmental club that Bea wanted to join. And then there was being a recess monitor. And who knows what’s next.

It’s not that Bryce doesn’t jump in feet first as well. She actually dives in head-first from the high dive singing her favorite song as loud as she can. And, when she doesn’t want to do something, she’s just as animated. And loud.

But Bryce hasn’t had the developmental delays her big sister has had to overcome and constantly compensate for. Something that is a continuous feedback loop that we’re all involved in, especially my wife Amy. Amen for that amazing mother, wife and friend, that’s for sure.

Proudly I watched my daughter play better than ever at our very first night soccer game. For a few minutes, she was completely alone at her end of the field under the lights, and it was then I remembered how we used to think she’d never play more than one year of soccer. How we worried about how well she’d adapt to everything the farther along in school we got. How much she would struggle with certain subjects. How well she’d fair socially and if she’d have friends. How maybe she’d completely withdraw and not participate in anything.

However, that’s not our Bea. No, not at all. She may feel alone sometimes in her head, but it’s her confident big heart, not my blue genes, that define her very being. I'm so grateful for that. Middle school and high school will be the challenges yet to come, and our entire family welcomes them, hearts wide open.

The First Astronaut

"Lit up with anticipation
We arrive at the launching site
The sky is still dark, nearing dawn
On the Florida coastline..."

–Rush, Countdown

"I'm going to be an astronaut," she said.

"That's awesome," we said.

This after our visit to the Kennedy Space Center over the summer. Both our girls loved seeing all the rockets and the Atlantis space shuttle that day, and it was especially poignant that we were there on the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 launch. But it was our youngest Bryce who really fell in love with the idea of space travel. So much so that she begged us to buy her an astronaut suit and NASA hat to wear while we were at the space center.

After some negotiation with Mom and Dad about how much she would spend out of her allowance "spend" money and how much we would cover, we bought the space suit. It was a muggy 95+ degrees outside in Florida that day, and she wore that suit the rest of the afternoon. Shortly after that, she made me promise that come Halloween this year, I'd go as her space shuttle.

I loved the idea of space travel when I was her age. I remember I took a summer astronomy class when I was 10 and the teacher let me each take the telescope home one night. I stayed outside for what seemed like hours, looking at the planets and the stars, until my mom told me it was time to go to bed.

Two years later, Star Wars came out, and that's all she wrote for me. I dove in so deep I've never looked back since. Neither Bryce nor Beatrice have taken to these movies like I have, but there's still time, considering there are many new Star Wars stories to come.

Then came the first space shuttle launch in April of 1981. The space shuttle Columbia was the first space-rated orbiter in NASA's Space Shuttle fleet and such an amazing feat of engineering, science and technology. My favorite band Rush would be inspired to write a song called Countdown about this very launch, a song that still gives me chills today. This inspiration would come after NASA invited Rush to be part of a select group to view the first launch of a space shuttle. So very cool.

This October came and went pretty fast, metaphorically at the speed of light, with work and family trips consuming over half of it. When we returned from these trips, Bryce reminded me of the space shuttle, and I had to quickly get to work on it to complete it before the Halloween events commenced.

I love being creative when I can, and I had lots of cardboard, a roll of white paper, rope, packing tape and marking pens to work with. In less than two hours I created a really simple representation of the space shuttle Columbia, complete with American flags that Bryce made for the shuttle. When she said she was only going to draw three stars, I asked her why, and she said "because". Fair enough. Maybe she was channeling the three band members of Rush. I can dream at least.

We also showed both girls some of the the video of the two female American astronauts who recently took part in the first all-female spacewalk. They'd been tasked with replacing a power controller, and had ventured out of the International Space Station. So awesome to watch. It was also so much fun when I showed the recruiting team at Jet Propulsion Laboratory, one of many organizations that participate in the Talent Board candidate experience benchmark research program I run, the picture of my daughter and I dressed as astronauts and space shuttle. In fact, they said they're hiring!

Bryce was so happy and proud to have me as her space shuttle Columbia at every Halloween event we went to this year, including the Halloween parade at her and her sister's school that all the students participate in. I got a lot of orbit miles out of that cardboard space shuttle in just under one week.

"I'm going to be the first female astronaut to go to the moon," Bryce has told us over and over again.

We of course agreed and, who knows, we may just see her do that someday. And while I don't ever want to take away anything from her about being the first female to go to the moon, to Mars and to who knows where else as the future becomes now again, we long for the day when we can just call her the first astronaut, because.

"Excitement so thick, you could cut it with a knife
Technology high, on the leading edge of life
Like a pillar of cloud, the smoke lingers
High in the air
In fascination with the eyes
of the world we stare..."

Like It’s Your Last Day Ever

“Didn't he say how he likes to make the holes?
Time melts away while he tries to make the holes
Turn it on, Salvador…”

–Toy Matinee, Turn It On Salvador

Between our two girls asking me where the other suitcase was, and my wife calling me from the fourth floor asking if I got the other suitcase, I suddenly understood: our other big suitcase was still in the apartment where we’d stayed all week.

And now it was locked with the key inside on the table, exactly where the owners had told us to leave the key. To shut the door behind us. To have safe travels home.

It was six in the morning, and we were supposed to have left for the airport by that point. The plan was to move the big bags one at a time down the tiny elevator from the fourth floor to the first, call the Uber and head to the airport, to start the long trek home from Paris.

“Dad, Mom said you brought the suitcase down, where is it?” our oldest Beatrice asked.

That’s when I got the phone call from my wife, Amy.

“You don’t have it? Sweetie, I already shut the door. It’s locked,” she said.

I took the tiny elevator back up to where she was, unable to articulate how horrified I was. I pounded my fists on my legs.

“I’m sorry, I thought you had the bag,” Amy said. “I’ll call and text the owners right now.”

“I told you I could only bring one bag at a time.”

“I’m calling them now.”

Later, I would relate that extreme sick feeling I felt at that very moment to when George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life chastised Uncle Billy for losing the $8,000 that was supposed to be deposited in the bank.

Where's that money, you silly stupid old fool? Where's that money? Do you realize what this means? It means bankruptcy and scandal and prison! That's what it means! One of us is going to jail; well, it's not gonna be me!

Except that we wouldn’t be going to prison. And it wasn’t a scandal. It was stressful, though, and in stress I tend to run on reactive overdramatic steam, and was already running through all possible (worst) scenarios of what would happen and what we’d have to do. The reality was, at worst, the owners would respond and show up too late, and we’d have to rebook our flights home. At best, the owners would respond quickly, come let us in so we could get our suitcase and get to the airport in time for our flight.

And so, we waited to hear back. Amy and the girls were in the lobby with all but the one missing suitcase, and me on the fourth floor waiting and staring at my phone. I could hear Amy talking softly with the girls all the way down on the first floor. It was early and no one else in the building was up yet. Time hung like weights on my face, arms and legs. It pulled me downward like the superheated gravity of a Salvador Dali painting. The horrified anger and frustration I had at that moment reminded me of the day before, when we were on our way to an Eiffel Tower tour, and hit a snag with our Metro subway tickets. We were losing time, something I despise, especially when there’s something scheduled we’re running up against. Traveling as a family works pretty well for us overall – the girls are great travelers and roll with it all, and Amy and I complement each other along the way.

But I really struggle with time, and Amy does not. Time shorts me, bullies me, shames me. Time protects her, loves her, forgives her. I wrestle with time; she dances with it. For our girls? Time is an open green field under blue skies where they can run and play.

A moment of indecision, defunct Metro tickets, an Uber that would’ve taken too long, and I decided we had to go to another Metro station and try again. I just didn’t want to miss the last scheduled tour on our trip, one that wasn’t cheap.

After going back and forth about it for less than a minute, I blurted out something like, “Fine, you can stay here but I’m going!”

Not a great moment for me, and although I handle stress much better in my life these days, I’m still sometimes sucked into the black holes of selfish anger.

“Don’t fight, Mom and Dad,” both girls said.

The fourth floor was eerily quiet as I thought about the day before, waiting to hear the owner had arrived to let us in.

We made it with plenty of time yesterday, I thought. And we took the girls on the Eiffel Tower, for goodness sake. First world problems and all that. So grateful we were able to go on this trip together. First DC, now this. Such an amazing trip and so educational and enlightening for us all. 

Then I remembered that, right before we made it to the tour with time to spare, I had said, “We just have to better build in that nickel and dime time when we travel. I travel a lot more than you now.”

Which, in retrospect, was just a stupid thing to say, because Amy was traveling a lot more than me when we first met, and now that I travel more for work, it’s easier just to plan for me, and yet she’s the one who has to prep travel for two kids and a dad when we all travel together. I help of course, but she’s always been better at the prep and planning than me. So, it was no surprise when she gently but firmly reminded me of that.

Back to the waiting on the fourth floor – only five minutes had gone by. I texted Amy.

Any response?

No, I am so sorry.

Love you. Nothing we can do about it.

And that was it, really. Nothing we could do about it. I sat down in that moment metaphorically as if it were a hammock chair, fully present in whatever was to happen next, and I repeated the brief meditation I practice more often these days.

Breathe in – I am – breathe out – at peace. Over and over. Amen.

Then I thought of the picture I took of Beatrice staring at a line of graffiti along the walls of the Seine River. It read:

Live like it’s your last day ever.

I received another text from Amy: He is coming now. 

Live.

At the airport, before we boarded, Amy said, “You see, everything works out just like it’s supposed to.”

“I know, and you always remind me of that,” I said.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

And then time melts away.

What Will Remain and Become

I told her to follow me, but she wanted to see and read all the descriptive panels along the way. We were in the National Archives in Washington DC viewing the founding documents of America, something both our girls didn't want to do initially. That's because we were out at lunch across the street and it was raining hard. Over three inches fell that afternoon. Plus, we'd already been hauling the girls to the White House and then a special FBI tour. We're a go-go-go family, so our speed with our girls is always on high.

But, we convinced them to go across the street. Told them we were going actually, and that they didn't have a choice. And so we all trudged through the rain across the street and entered the hallowed halls where the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights are kept. When we entered the rotunda, the girls were in awe. We were in awe. My wife Amy and I had been to DC prior to the girls and seen all this already, but it never gets old for us. No matter where we are the political spectrum, we're proud Americans through and through. And it was exciting to be able to bring the whole family on my work trips again and make a little vacation out of them.

Which is why it was bittersweet for us, just because of where we're at with our country now, more polarized than ever.

I pointed upwards to the murals above us and said, "Those are the founding fathers — and behind them were just as many founding mothers." Amy nodded and I teared up little because we feel there’s so much at stake for us all right now and we wonder what of America will remain and what it will become for our daughters. Beatrice and Bryce both seemed to enjoy it and even asked us a few questions.

I thought to myself, We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union...

The next day we continued our DC trip by going to the Holocaust Museum. We considered not taking them because of the difficult content, and then it was recommended that we go through the children's section called "Daniel's Story." Either way we decided we wanted them to know the story of the Holocaust, which was sadly only one of too many other atrocities some have brought on others because they feel they’re superior to them combined with the irrational fear of the few losing power and control, over and over again. And even in America it happens -- indigenous people, enslaved people and people held captive at our borders. We talked about how we can and should make a difference. When asked how it made them feel, Bea and Bryce said they were sad. We all left quietly and headed back to our hotel.

While Amy and I have no idea what will remain and become of our great country, we still have faith our constitution will persevere, and we'll do whatever we can as citizens to ensure that the democratic republic experiment of America continues. Yes, we're all fallible and we all have our own biases, but we as a family have no room for perpetuating fear or hate. We can't have room for that when there's so much more positive potential that abounds. That's what #BhivePower is all about.

My Birthday Wish

I'm exhausted. I never imagined that community service would take such an emotional toll. Even after serving on the Santa Cruz Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women (CPVAW) for nearly three years, and now being its chair, my involvement in the past three weeks has eclipsed anything I ever imagined this work would entail.

Yes, I'm naive. Especially when it comes to the local politics that have now completely consumed the results from an independent investigation into allegations of sexism, bullying and harassment made by five women against two Santa Cruz councilmembers. Two complaints were substantiated, multiple others were unsubstantiated (but not unfounded), which still indicated a pervasive pattern of harassment and disrespectful behavior for all the victims.

I haven't slept much. I'm quick to anger. I've been resistant to nearly every step of this recent journey. Plus, I still have to run my organization day to day with its own set of stressors. I still have to be Dad to our two girls. I still have to be a supportive husband to my wife, who's done nothing but support me the entire time.

And yet, none of that really matters. This is about the victims. This is why I do this work. Those who are brave enough to come forward share their stories and who long for healing and justice. Those who have endured weeks, months and years of all kinds of abuse. How I respond to it all this does matter, but not the fact that I'm tired and stressed about it all, because this isn't about me in the first place. I chose this and took a leadership position to help shepherd corrective change. It's like I've taken a pressure washer to my very soul and blasted away the years of biased emotional rust. Not all the bias, that's tough to do, but enough to understand my current convictions that connect me to my childhood of domestic violence and sexual abuse and back again.

Our president has been accused of rape, sexual assault and sexual harassment by at least 24 women. He's retaliated against many of these women, threatening to sue them or insulting them. The president himself has admitted, on the now infamous “Access Hollywood” tape, that he forces himself on women. And yet, many of his conservative supporters, including Republican congressman and evangelical Christians, are doubling down on his denial. That this is all politically motivated and that the victims are lying.

Our two local city councilmembers referenced above have consistently stated they didn't do anything wrong after 5 women came forward. One of the men, who's white, said he's sorry, that he was misunderstood. The other, who's black, said the reaction of "fragile white women" is one of systemic racism, that their reaction of feeling disrespected and harassed was their fault, not his. And yet, many of their progressively liberal supporters are doubling down on their denial. That this is all politically motivated and that the victims are lying.

Of course, the above two examples aren't the same. They are, however, two sides of the same coin; the same problem we see around the world. That this is about male power and control, patriarchy, and anyone who challenges that status quo, who challenges rape culture -- a society or environment whose prevailing social attitudes have the effect of normalizing or trivializing sexual assault and abuse -- is immediately minimized, trivialized, shamed, blamed and not believed. I was raised in this culture and it's been an eye-opening journey to get to where I'm at today, raising two young girls with my wife.

I cannot speak to what it's like being a person of color and the racism that is still pervasive today, but I can speak to being a victim of sexual abuse and domestic violence, and how they can be shamed and blamed. Which is why, when victims come forward, I have to start by believing, because the research is clear about the prevalence of false allegations around harassment, domestic violence and sexual assault -- it's between 2% and 10%. But even with this small incidence, it's the real victims, those who have actually been harassed and/or assaulted, have the much longer road to healing, if they ever truly can. They're also the ones who are in fear of reporting what happened, due to the way we victimize the victims, like what I witnessed at our last city council meeting. If more came forward, then most likely it would reduce the percentage of false allegations overall. It's takes a lot of courage to come forward and say that you've been harassed or assaulted, for women and men alike.

When victims come forward, we have to believe. Especially when any allegations are proven, those who have abused need to be held accountable. To not do so perpetuates patriarchy, power and control, and victims will not come forward, and harassment, disrespectful workplace behavior, domestic violence, sexual assault, rape and yes, murder, will go on and on.

Societal change is hard. We just finished our second annual awareness and prevention symposium called Transforming Together where we invited the entire Santa Cruz community -- women, men, and gender non-conforming citizens -- to come together in a collective effort to generate awareness and help prevent sexual harassment, domestic and intimate partner violence, sexual assault and rape, and respond more effectively when they do occur.

There are some amazing people in our community working to end sexual assault, sexual harassment and domestic violence. They are providing support services and healing resources for victims who come forward, and push for accountability of those accused of abuse. And now there's an ever-increasing focus on continuous awareness and primary prevention programs that start with healthy relationships, better communication skills, boundary setting and more. Programs that can also help prevent these issues before they start. This will be a big focus of our commission work going forward.

For those who have been bullied, harassed, abused, assaulted or worse, I hear you, I see you and I start by believing.

We all deserve to be safe. We can all help stop it before it starts. Men have to be part of the solution.

That is my birthday wish. That is what I'm fighting for.

In Susie's Shoes

Someone from the audience yelled, "Man up!"

I couldn't believe it. Maybe I was naive; city council meetings can be contentious. But I'd never heard something quite like this before. We heard disrespectful comment after disrespectful comment and egregious public victim shaming and blaming at the last city council meeting in Santa Cruz. And it all translated as we don't believe you, so be quiet, sit down, and shut up. This from the California coastal progressive bastion of #metoo and equal rights.

Earlier this year, a Sacramento-based law firm was hired to conduct an independent investigation into allegations of sexism, bullying and harassment. The scope of the investigation included complaints made by five individuals -- all women -- against Santa Cruz Councilmember Drew Glover and Councilmember Chris Krohn alleging violations of the City of Santa Cruz Administrative Procedure Order Section II, #1B Respectful Workplace Conduct; and City Council Policy 25.2, Discrimination, Harassment, Retaliation, and Respectful Workplace Conduct Policy occurring between July 2018 and May 3, 2019.

The final report was then submitted for review to the city in late July (and has since been released to the public) and the city HR director later ruled that there was sufficient evidence to substantiate the investigation's assessment that both Krohn and Glover had violated the city’s seven-page Santa Cruz Respectful Workplace Conduct Policy. There was one substantiated complaint each confirmed (evidence obtained through the investigation establishes the allegations are true) and multiple others filed against each councilmember that were not substantiated (the investigation failed to disclose enough evidence to either prove or disprove the allegations), which does not mean unfounded (evidence obtained through the investigation establishes the allegations is/are false). In fact, this shows a pervasive pattern of disrespectful workplace behavior and harassment.

I'm the current chair for the Santa Cruz City Council Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women (CPVAW), and myself along with our vice chair and other commissioners attended the September 24, 2019 Santa Cruz City Council meeting to to affirm our commitment to the women complainants who had come forward with regard to the abusive and disrespectful conduct of Councilmembers Krohn and Glover. As a Commission, we “Start by Believing” those who have the courage to come forward and share their stories of harassment and abuse. We stood and made that statement to the city council and the public.

We were also there in particular support of Susie O’Hara, who has served as our staff coordinator for CPVAW, and who is one of the five complainants. She made a heart-wrenching public statement at the council meeting with her entire family next to her -- her three daughters and her husband.

During the September 24 meeting, we heard multiple instances of Krohn and Glover supporters who claimed the complaints against them were false, blatantly victim shaming and blaming the women complainants with no replies or outcries to cease and desist other than from three other council members, two of whom were complainants.

Susie O’Hara was also publicly castigated directly in front of her husband and her children, telling her to "toughen up" and "deal with it." I was floored. Who are these people who live in my community? I thought.

The public display was quite destructive and damaging to the victims who had come forward as well as possible deterrent to other victims of bullying, harassment and sexual assault in the city and county of Santa Cruz.

There was also a proposed reprimand of the two councilmembers on the agenda, but the voices of the the victims and public were silenced when a majority of the council moved to table the censure item, an unprecedented act of political manipulation. And the two councilmembers accused of the above disrespectful workplace behavior were allowed to vote to table it.

The next night we had our CPVAW meeting where we moved to implore our mayor to re-agendize the censure of Councilmembers Krohn and Glover. Councilmember Krohn attended our meeting and when I pressed him as to why he did not ask the public in chambers to stop their victim shaming comments, he said, “I didn’t realize it was going on.”

Really. You've got to be kidding me. Watch the recording of the meeting again, please.

I grew up with domestic violence and sexual abuse, and I worried that I wouldn't be believed when I finally came forward. I was thankfully fully supported by my friends and family. But when I now witness my community publicly shame and blame victims who have bravely come forward, witness my community politicize the victims by calling their accusations false and discriminatory to be used against those accused, all the while enabled and empowered by the majority of our own city council, I'm deeply disappointed. All I have to do is put myself in Susie's shoes, with my daughters and wife by my side, listening to my community humiliate me by telling me to man up and move on. My resolve to always believe victims and help them heal, to hold those who have abused accountable, and to strive for greater awareness and prevention, has never been greater.


Join the City of Santa Cruz Commission for the Prevention of Violence Against Women (CPVAW) and the local Santa Cruz community for the 2nd annual free "awareness and prevention" symposium on Saturday, October 5, 2019, at the Louden Nelson Community Center from 9:00 AM to 3:00 PM.

The theme is again Transforming Together and we invite the entire Santa Cruz community -- women, men, and gender non-conforming citizens -- to come together in a collective effort to generate awareness and help prevent sexual harassment, domestic and intimate partner violence, sexual assault and rape, and respond more effectively when they do occur.

To Be Those Parents

We jumped off the roof in the summertime. We'd prop the ladder against the house, scramble up it to atop the porch, and walked from the top of porch to the roof. We'd take in the view of the housetops around us and the horizon beyond, and then take a few quick steps down the shake shingle rooftop and jump right into the swimming pool below. 

From the edge of the house to the pool was only four feet, so we always easily cleared the pool decking 10 feet below us. After baking in the 100+ degree weather of California's Central Valley, swimming in our pool all through high school was such a pleasure. Especially with all our friends over. And my sister and I always had friends over. 

Our mom and dad loved the fact that our friends were always over, except when they weren't there and we were jumping off the roof into the pool. Or, when we were making out with those we were dating at the time. Or, when we were having a drinking party when they were at the coast for the weekend. 

"Son, quit jumping off the roof," Dad would say. "You're going to break your frickin' neck. And if your friends break their frickin' neck, they parents are going to sue us. Do you understand?"

Except that he'd throw the real expletives at me and then some. I'd nod and say I did understand, and then the next week we'd again be jumping off the roof. My dad had been a police officer and detective for over 32 years, and was more than direct at times, and yet still had a big heart. 

What was lost on me at the time was how much our friends enjoyed coming over when our parents were home, even more often than when they weren't. My parents were always so generous with all our friends, even those they didn't like so much. But they weren't just friendly adults longing to be friends with our friends; they were friendly adults who still had boundaries as our parents and who treated our friends as extended family. More than once in years since my friends have reminded me of how much my parents were like a second family to them, a second set of parents they listened to and respected. 

Fast forward decades to our family of two girls, Beatrice and Bryce, now 11 and 9. Both girls have many friends, which we're thankful for, as they are loving young humans with good hearts and grateful souls. With friends over regularly for play dates and now both girls experiencing slumber parties away and at home, the growing up adventures have only just begun. 

In fact, the multiple movie parties we've had with nearly 20 kids at one time have turned into date nights for many other parents, of which they're quite appreciative (with a good-luck wink and a smile). We have fun and the kids have fun, and the latest of these events was Bea's 11th birthday party where over 25 kids shook the foundation of our not-so-big house. 

So. Many. Kids. A little overwhelming for me, but less so for my wife Amy, with us both trying to keep an eye on everything ("Stop feeding the rabbit," and "Stop jumping on the couch," and "Stay out of the garage," and "No pizza or cake or drinks in the living room"), although the kids were pretty good overall (only two spills, that we know of), still listening to the adults in the room as they're all still in the pre-tween shadows.

"There's so many kids here," I said to Amy.

"Yes, and I want to be those parents," she said, "the ones where the kids are comfortable coming over and we know what's going on because they're here."

"True, but there's so many kids."

"I know, Sweetie. Love you. Please go see what they're doing in the backyard."

Of course we're not the only house the kids will want to hang out at, and we're not the only parents who befriend other kids as a second family of sorts. But we do want to be those parents, especially through middle school (which is coming next year!), high school and beyond. We want to know what's going on as much as we can and as much as they're comfortable sharing with us. No fear or shame, just parental guidance and understanding, and a lotta frickin' patience (miss you Dad!). 

The good news for now? We're a few years from the tempests of teenage-land. Plus, we currently don't have a pool, so there's no jumping off the roof any time soon.