We had a school board retreat with an ISBE rep. yesterday, which meant that she was asking us various questions about our recent self-evaluation and inviting us to reflect further on them, and I wasn’t saying anything, and about ten minutes in, she was trying to get people who hadn’t spoken much to talk more, so she looked at me (and I think she remembered me from last year, and was a little confused as to why I wasn’t my usual talkative self) and called on me by name, and I tried to say that I disagreed a bit with what had been discussed so far, but it wasn’t anything substantive, and I was sorry I hadn’t been talking more…
…and then I burst into tears. The next words were, “my mother-in-law passed on Saturday,” and apparently saying those words out loud makes it impossible for my brain to compartmentalize my grief.
Everyone was very nice, of course — the sweet clerk, Lisa, came and gave me a hug and extra napkins, and one of the other board members gave me HIS napkins, and people said they really appreciated my still coming in for the retreat (honestly, I had thought about skipping, but since I was one of the ones pushing for us doing more and longer retreats, I felt like I kind of had to be there if at all possible).
And I mopped up my tears, and they went back to the conversation, and after a little while, I could compartmentalize enough to actually participate. So I’m glad I went. And since the retreat happens in closed session, at least my weeping wasn’t broadcast on TV to the whole Village, which I appreciate.
But grief just sneaks out of nowhere with a sledgehammer.
This is a pic of our family with Kevin’s parents at our 25th anniversary party, so back in 2019, I think? (Anniversary of our getting together, not getting married, which happened 23 years into the relationship, long after having the kids). We lost Ron in spring of 2023, and Ann summer of 2024, so I’m going to call that a year. A hard year.
I talked with Ron and Ann about school board issues sometimes. Ann was a lawyer, who mostly stopped practicing to raise her kids, though she continued to work with a local organization that helped families who had been separated by the courts (for the safety of the kids) reunify when possible, when the parents had managed to get their lives into a better, safe place. Ann adored children, especially her grandchildren — at the end, she’d lost interest in cooking for herself, so her cupboards were almost empty — except for the cookie-baking-and-decorating shelves. They were still jam-packed with sprinkles.
Ron was a federal judge, wise and compassionate, exactly the kind of person you’d want for a judge. They were perhaps a little more politically conservative than Kevin and me, not so quick to be in favor of things like free college, for example. Liberals rather than progressives. But they were staunch Democrats, and they made their queer, poly, brown, not-even-married son’s girlfriend very welcome. I was tremendously lucky in my in-laws.
When I was struggling with a complex school board policy issue, a conversation with them was always clarifying, and sometimes helped me see other ways of looking at an issue. We still might not end up in the same place on next steps, but their perspectives and thoughts were so valuable to me.
I didn’t realize I had an ask when I started this post — I was just going to tell you about crying in a board meeting. But I’d like to ask you all, as we head into the next few months of the election, to believe that your neighbors may be starting from very different political places, but that at core, most of them probably want the same things you do — you’re mostly arguing about the best path to get there.
We want children to be safe, and fed, and educated, and loved. We treasure bonds of family and community. We want to live our lives without fear of violence. When we get sick, we want to get well. We want economic prosperity, and the chance to take a vacation once in a while.
If we start with our common ground, then maybe we can find the places where our policies and practices can converge, and build from there.
My own parents are still alive, but with Kevin’s gone, there’s a hard realization that for that side of the family, there aren’t any elders to turn to for wisdom and advice. We’re the adults in the room now. It’s tough. We’re leaning on each other, and being patient with our failings, and hoping that we’ll be enough.
We have to do our best — there are children (ours, everyone’s) who need us.
