She was tiny. The same age as my 15-year-old Adelaide, but several inches shorter. Eyes the color of whisky; hair the color of wheat. Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt like any other teenager. Alabaster skin, little pearls for teeth. The only thing severe at all about her, the only thing not childlike, was her eyebrows. They swept across the top of her face like two long, elegant brushstrokes, high and arched.

I wanted to hug her because that’s what I do. And her mother is an ocean away. But she regarded me a little bit like a scared rabbit, so I refrained.

We talked about nothing at first. She likes it here; loves the people. The people are very friendly. Her host family is good to her. She likes the school. “I feel big support here.” She smiles. The high school made a poster for me.”

“What was it like,” I asked her, “when you heard the news of the Russian invasion?”

She nodded, anticipating the question. “I was very surprised. What I mean is, there has been war in my country since 2014. So there are always threats, and sometimes soldiers and sounds of fighting. We kinda got used to it, and you might have to be careful a few days, and then everything would be normal again. But everybody didn’t expect this to happen.”

Olena Havrylova lives with her parents, Sergei and Yulia, in a town of 90,000 called Lisichansk in the Donbas region of Ukraine. Her brother, Daniil, 19, is a student at the University in Kyiv. Because of Covid, he’s been home for three months, scheduled to go back to Kyiv in February. But Covid numbers started climbing again so the university extended quarantine. Olena is grateful he was home with the family instead of in Kyiv when the bombing began.

The Donbas region is in the far east of Ukraine, bordering Russia. She said for now the fighting has died down in her town, but her family still keeps their windows boarded. They live on the first floor of a nine-floor building. There’s a basement in the building the residents use as a bomb shelter. Her school is across the street, and also has a basement in which neighborhood folks can hide. She showed me a picture of her school, and the street in front of it, where a rocket sticks up out of the blast it made in the pavement. It looks like some weird sculpture, a macabre artistic statement. Her grandparents live five minutes away.

She showed me another picture. “This is a free train. It is taking women and children to L’viv.” The hoards of people lined up on either side of the tracks reminded me, eerily, of old photos from World War Two. “From L’viv they must get a car to take them to the Polish border. It’s a dangerous journey.”

Olena explained that her mother could leave if she wanted to, but the men—her son and husband—must stay. So she is staying. “The men have to stay and fight,” Olena said. “If they try to leave, they will be caught and immediately drafted.”

I asked Olena what she thinks about the Russian people. Does she see them as her enemies? “I feel sorry for them,” she said. “All they have is fake news. Putin tells them their army is going to my country to help us, because we are fighting each other. Even the soldiers didn’t know the truth until they crossed the border. That’s when they were given the order to shoot us.” She told me her best friend’s brother studies in Russia and he believes the fake news. “It is crazy. So sad.”

Leary of fake news myself, I asked her if our impression of Zelensky—as the brave, beloved, heroic leader—is accurate. “Oh yes,” she exclaimed. “We love him. The whole country is behind him.” She shows me a video of Putin surrounded by fake people, in front of a background she says is fake, then one of Zelensky. “See how he moves the microphone? That is to let us know it is real, he is right there in his office. He will not leave us. He fights with our army, while Putin stays hidden.”

Olena, who shares a first name with Ukraine’s first lady, swells with pride as she continues. And I understand that the image of fierce, patriotic Ukranians I’m seeing on Twitter and CBS is not fake news either. “What do you think will happen?” I asked her.

“I think we will win.” She looks into my eyes. Hers are suddenly very serious. “Putin didn’t know how strong we are. He thought he could just come in and take our land, that Ukraine would allow it. But that will never happen.”

The post Ukraine Strong appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I was inspired by your article today to write a note to you. I don’t usually do this sort of thing; I try to ignore politics since I hate it so much!  However, I find myself wanting to let you know how much I agree with you.  I’m neither conservative nor liberal – I’m pretty much in the middle, but I seldom find anyone else in that position.  There’s always another way to look at things, I believe, and we should always consider the other side (which doesn’t seem to be a common practice in this time). For instance, I am a devout Catholic who firmly believes that abortion is sinful.  I would never consider it myself and hope my children are the same. (I’ve had eight pregnancies and 9 children with my husband of 60 years who died in 2013.)

However, an experience I had as an assistant principal at Pine Bluff High School in the 60’s caused me to consider the other side.  My office had a sweet, smart, young girl as our monitor – 15 years old and a sophomore.  One afternoon as she was walking home from school, she was accosted by a man in the alley as she passed and was raped.  Humiliated and ashamed, she told no one, not even her mother.  Later on, she missed her period and told her math teacher in tears.  I drove her to the lab where her pregnancy was confirmed.

When we got back to the high school, I called her mother who promptly picked her up and took her for an abortion.  I hate to say it, but I was immensely relieved, because her life as she expected it was not ruined by this criminal experience.  Ever since then, I have hoped for another way to address this situation for others, and even though Catholic, I cannot protest for the complete end to abortion. 

I have been retired from education for 18 years and so grateful! Thank you for reading this email!

I so appreciate her perspective. It’s remarkable to me for many reasons. This person—a moderate, or centrist—feels like she is alone in the middle of the political spectrum. She’s elderly, married 60 years in 2013. A mother of 9. Devout Catholic. Highly educated; her signature included a doctorate. Retired educator. She witnessed this tragic thing in the 60s, before abortion would have been legal in Arkansas. Roe v Wade was decided in 1973.

I can relate to feeling lonely in the middle, although I believe there are many more of us than anyone realizes. I can relate to being married a long time, though not 60 years yet, and having a lot of children, though a lot for me is four. I can also relate to having spiritual reasons for hating abortion and believing I could not emotionally survive it myself.

As a fellow educator I understand seeing things, bearing witness at times to intimate details of people’s lives. My students have taught me a great deal about worlds as foreign to me, personally, as another planet: the worlds of poverty, abuse, and crime; worlds with very little agency or access or options. It is in my role as a teacher that I am constantly confronted with the heartbreaking nuances of things that might otherwise, from my limited experience, seem black or white.

We need this woman’s story. We need people like her at the table in Arkansas, weighing in on how we make policies that affect our citizens. We need the wisdom of her age and experience as an individual, mother, and school administrator.

The vision of Arkansas Strong is to amplify voices like hers. May this be the place all voices in Arkansas are heard. May this be the place this reader is not alone, but brings her unique strengths and finds others who strengthen her. May we be the table set for everyone to gather, together, and make Arkansas Strong.

The post Come to the Table appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Arkansas Strong in the making

When I was floating my plans for Arkansas Strong, a friend told me, “You need to meet Rex Nelson.” Astonished that I didn’t recognize the name, my friend went on: “Rex is famous in the state of Arkansas. He writes for the Democrat-Gazette and does about a hundred other things. He’s only the nicest guy you will ever meet. You guys have so much in common…Rex loves Arkansas. He goes all over the state writing about the good things that are happening, especially in small towns.” This friend had a vision Rex and I might end up on the road together and do a show called “On the Road with Rex and Gwen.” He introduced us in an email, certain we would be peas in a pod.

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What he wants from state leaders now is not allegiance to a party, but a return to serving people. Meeting practical needs. He wants Arkansas to be kind, prosperous, and safe, guided by common sense.
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He was right. I met Rex one morning in Little Rock at the Capitol Hotel for breakfast. By this time I had done my own research and understood that Rex was a big deal—Washington Bureau Chief for the paper during the time of Senator Dale Bumpers; Director of Communications for Governor Mike Huckabee, and appointed to the Delta Regional Authority by President George Bush. Also a husband, father, sports radio commentator, and author. I felt like a moron for not knowing who he was before; it was a huge honor he agreed to meet with me.

 

Listen, learn, and leave with a changed perspective

 

I sat waiting for our meeting, sipping coffee all nervous and fidgety. That lasted till the moment Rex walked through the doors of the Capitol lobby, instantly spotted me, and smiled like a long-lost friend. As we walked together into the restaurant Rex greeted everyone he knew, which was everyone. When we finally made it to our table and ordered, Rex pulled out a yellow tablet. “Just thought I would ask you a few questions.”

I had planned to interview him, but ended up telling him my life’s story. It was a lesson in journalism  watching him work. He took complete charge of the conversation, asked brilliant, probing questions, listened with rapt attention, led me from one subject to the next. In other words, all of the things I usually try to do when I interview people—and had planned to do with him. But there’s no managing Rex Nelson. I usually think I’m not the easiest person to lead or guide, but Rex puts you under a spell. He’s like the favorite uncle you wish you had, the one you can trust with anything.

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What Rex does is remind us of the best that is in us—the good we have been, and can be again.
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Our hope for Arkansas

 

Since that day Rex has been a mentor. Someone I want to emulate. He’s a lifelong Republican with many friends on both sides of the aisle. He’s sad about the meanness he sees coming from Christian people and feels somewhat disoriented, as I do, in places that used to feel like a spiritual home. What he wants from state leaders now is not allegiance to a party, but a return to serving people. Meeting practical needs. He wants Arkansas to be kind, prosperous, and safe, guided by common sense. And while his work occasionally finds him bravely touching on the subject of politics, mostly what Rex does is remind us of the best that is in us—the good we have been, and can be again.

He does this by seeing us and celebrating our successes. One day he’s in the Delta, writing about how well we grow rice. The next week he may be in Northwest Arkansas, pointing out our business acumen, philanthropy, and artistic success. He’s especially fond of restaurants that serve world-class food in rural areas. The places in Dumas and Lonoke and Hazen where people know your name when you come through the door.

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There may be anger and unrest and fear on Facebook and stormy weather on the nightly news. But Rex, without sugar-coating, gently lifts our eyes to the good. The true.
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He likes to find us doing new things in creative ways, making a difference in the world whether it’s a museum in McGehee or casino in Pine Bluff. Rex is there whether it’s a ballgame or a ballet. He is there for all things Arkansas.Like the Southern food he samples around the state, Rex comforts us. Things may look bad in our legislature. Covid may ravage those we love.

There may be anger and unrest and fear on Facebook and stormy weather on the nightly news. But Rex, without sugar-coating, gently lifts our eyes to the good. The true. He shifts our focus to the excellent things that are worthy of praise. Week after week he amplifies voices of everyday Arkansans who are out there in every region, doing good work. And in sharing their stories, he brings light and hope to the state we’re in.

 

The post The Man Who Comforts Arkansas appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The concrete block building that used to house a liquor store is painted dark brown. A red and white sign that labels the Thai Steak House also proclaims “Best steaks in town!” I assume this is right though I’ve never had one. I am not aware of other steaks in my hometown.

Two gilded wooden statues, one of a woman and another of a mythological creature with the upper body of a person and feet of a bird, bow and greet everyone who walks through the door. The scents of ginger, garlic, curry, onion, egg, basil, and hot pepper float through the air and tickle my nose. Nick waves from the kitchen as his son Matthew takes my card and rings up my order.

I’m picking up spring rolls, egg rolls, chicken hibachi, hibachi no meat extra veggies, dumplings, chicken fried rice, and volcano chicken, spicy #2. Nick brings out the containers of food, piling it on the counter, adding egg drop soups and canned drinks I didn’t order. His face beams a huge smile. “For you. On the house.” I start to protest, as I always do, and he waves me away as he always does. “No no no. On the house, please. For your family. Thank you.” His eyes twinkle. He disappears back into the kitchen where his wife cooks alongside him over the steamy grill.

A Son, a Father, a Family

Matthew won’t be there much longer. He graduated high school with my son and heads to college, on a scholarship, in the fall. I wonder what his parents will do at the restaurant without him and his command of English. But I imagine they have things figured out. They are that kind of people.

I know about Matthew’s command of English because my daughter tutored him. It was one of those golden experiences you want your kids to have but are powerless to orchestrate; we just got lucky. Math is the same in any language, and according to my kids Matthew is a math genius. Grace—so aptly named—worked with him after school at the restaurant to help him catch up in her specialty area of words. She wouldn’t take any money. So, with the subtlety of Captain Obvious, Nick began to stuff her with exotic food. Grace learned all of the best things they served because by the time she finished tutoring Matthew she had tasted it all, and brought several things home. She loved the egg drop soup. This was several years ago. But Nick remembers.

Father’s Reaching Though Generations

On Father’s Day this past weekend, I celebrated my dad, who grew up in Cecil, Arkansas, attended a one-room school house, and was the first in his family to go to college. When I think of the distance from his beginnings to the beginning he gave me I’m pretty amazed. In one generation he managed to rise out of poverty and into a position so far from it that his kids have trouble fathoming what it was like not to have a nickel for a coke, and his grandchildren actually have too many toys. This is the story of my family. The big strong shoulders we stand on. My dad and his vision, his sacrifice, and his hard work to pave the way for us to live this beautiful life.

I wonder if Matthew ever looks at his father’s shoulders bent over the Thai Steak House’s kitchen sink and sees the shoulders of a giant. Because even though I’d put Nick at about 5 feet 8 inches tall, maybe, when Matthew steps up to his future this fall he’ll be standing tall. He’s Nick’s boy. And the perilous journey across the world to Ozark, Arkansas; the hope, the fear, the risk; the long hours in a hot kitchen, day after day, year after year, serving people his culture plate by plate, bite by bite, knowing they will never/can never fully understand; the aching back, tired feet, burning eyes; the lack of time for anything else, like being outside, going to school, playing, working on his own English, finding his passion, dreaming his own dreams…it is for Matthew. It’s Nick’s vision, his sacrifice, his joy. It’s the laying down of a father’s life so that his son can live his.

Here’s to my father, and Nick, and all of the other fathers who hold up our state—our country—on their shoulders. You are brave and strong. And appreciated.

The post Father’s Day: An Arkansas Story appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

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It was the best of times for Grace. She was born into a loving family where both parents have graduate degrees and well-paying jobs. They’ve been married to each other for 26 years, live in a beautiful home on several acres, and have lots of books on their shelves. They even have a grand piano. Grace takes lessons.

Grace’s mom takes her shopping for all of the latest styles and lets her pick out school supplies. Her dad helps with math homework. They have plenty of healthy food and most nights the family sits around the table together and talks about their day. At night, after a nice bubble bath, Grace’s parents read her a Bible story and tuck her into bed. She gets a good night’s sleep. In the mornings Grace’s dad makes a hot breakfast, mom packs her lunch, and she rides to school with her aunt, a teacher who lives next door.

Grace’s parents go to conferences with her teachers. They hold her to high standards. Grace works hard and takes advantage of all of the great things her public school offers, and graduates as Valedictorian with 30 hours of concurrent college credit. She becomes a National Merit Finalist, gets the Governor’s Scholarship, and goes to the University of Arkansas on a full ride. Her long-term goal is to attend law school and move back to her small town to raise a family and practice law.

The Worst of Times for Justin

The other student we’ll call Justin. He’s the same age as Grace but it’s the worst of times for him.

Justin doesn’t know his dad and his mom, who had him at 16, is on drugs. He lives with his two younger siblings way out in the mountains in an old shack with his disabled grandmother. Their yard is full of trash—old cars, rusty appliances, and broken toys. Two skinny dogs languish on chains.

Justin sleeps on the couch. He squirrel hunts so the family has something to eat for supper. His grandma doesn’t get her check for a few more days. There are three potatoes on the floor and an onion in the fridge; old grease for frying the squirrels. That is all. If it weren’t for free breakfast and lunch at school the kids would be starving. Some church in town sends them home with backpacks of snacks over the weekend.

Justin’s pants are too short and his shirt is stained. His shoes have holes. He doesn’t own a coat to wear in winter. But every morning a big yellow bus rumbles down his dirt road, stops to pick him up, and takes him to school. School is warm in winter and cool when it’s hot outside. Justin feels safe there. Although he goes to bed hungry, doesn’t sleep well, and Grandma has never read him a story, every morning Justin walks through the same door to the same classroom as Grace. He sits at the same table with the same books. All day they both interact with the same highly trained certified teachers. Because Justin was screened for dyslexia when a teacher noticed difficulty reading, Justin gets explicit, direct instruction from a dyslexia specialist. Justin’s favorite class is shop, where he’s discovered he has a knack for welding. Justin is good with his hands.

Justin eats a hot lunch, goes to Math lab for extra help with Geometry, and plays football where he’s part of a team. His coach is a good man who encourages him to do well in school and checks his grades every week. Because Justin works hard and takes advantage of the great things his public school offers, Justin graduates and receives his high school diploma. The school counselor helped him fill out a FASFA, so he gets financial aid to attend the local community college where he plans to become a welder. He’ll have a good job waiting as soon as he’s certified. Justin’s long-term goal is to get a place of his own and help his siblings make it through school. 

Public School: the Great Equalizer

This story may sound outlandish to non-rural readers, maybe even rural non-public school teachers and staff. But these students are not fictional. They are actual people. The people our schools serve every day. Grace’s name has not been changed—she’s my daughter—and Justin, whose name is not Justin, was a player on my husband’s football team. Both are Ozark Hillbillies, though they could be from any school in rural Arkansas, which is to say the vast majority of schools in Arkansas. 

In a rural state where over 66% of kids qualify for free and reduced school lunches, there are a great many more Justins than Graces. It’s the public school system more than anything else that brings them together and offers equity. It’s the one place they are guaranteed to stand on common ground. Justin didn’t choose to be born into poverty any more than Grace chose the middle class. But because of school—miraculous, generous, beautiful, American public school—Justin can get out. Public school is his ticket to the American Dream.

Why Funding Public School Matters

Bills circulating in our legislature right now would void that ticket for the most vulnerable children among us—those in poverty, those with special needs, those with learning and physical disabilities—all of whom public schools are required by law to accommodate, whatever extra space, staff, and equipment are required. While voucher pushers promote their bills as supporting low income families and those with special needs, that’s a smoke screen for the real reason: corporate greed. Recently a bill was debated in the Arkansas House and marketed as a “scholarship” program to benefit underprivileged kids, although the income cutoff is higher than the average family income in Arkansas. Lobbyists paraded parents of children with disabilities—a total of two–lucky enough to receive one of these “scholarships,” to testify how their children benefited from private school experience. My heart goes out to them. But their sincere anecdotal experience fails to negate the fact that hundreds of thousands of rural students are harmed in states that funnel public tax money to vouchers. We don’t need that rip-off in Arkansas. Yet the bills are such wolves in sheep’s clothing most voters have trouble understanding the consequences.

To be plain, the way the scam works is that rich people receive tax credit for every dollar they put toward the fund to pay for private school vouchers. This means they can choose to pay tax only to support private school vouchers. It would be like if I passed a bill that set up a fund to pave my mile-long dirt driveway. Regular taxpayers—the ones who fund our shared public highways–would credit me dollar-for-dollar even though I’d never let anyone use the private road but my family and friends. Sticking with this comparison, I’d argue the legislature should do it because it would really help my family—we can’t otherwise afford a paved driveway–and it’s such a tiny amount of money no one would miss it. Of course, the most recent school voucher bill allows the fund cap to rise 25% per year. So in 10 years we go from that insignificant amount to 37 million. And in 25 years it rings up at over a billion dollars siphoned away from public schools.

The American Dream of Public Education

If this happens, the Graces of the world might have to move to an urban area, but they’ll likely be okay. They have networks of support to help them. The biggest losers are the least of these—rural children who have no transportation or parental support or ability to navigate the system that makes private school in a larger town an option. There are no real options for them but the public school. And as it loses more and more funding, the quality goes down. Less money means less teachers, bigger classes, run-down facilities, old technology, and fewer supplies. Instead of the great democratic space that convenes diverse community, schools become segregated into rich and private, public and poor. Special interest groups grow fat like dog ticks sucking the public revenue dry. Rural districts ultimately don’t survive, and the 66% of students who are Justins fall through the cracks, likely perpetuating the cycle of poverty.

It doesn’t have to happen—not here. But it’s time for patriotic Arkansans, we who believe in the American Dream, to stand together and stand strong for Arkansas children. Which means we stand up and fight for our public schools.

The post A Tale of Two Students: The Gift of Public School appeared first on Arkansas Strong.