Return to the Reservation

It was mid-March 1976.  My father had just graduated from law school at the University of Utah, and my mother was eight months pregnant with their second child.  They had set out early that morning from Salt Lake City with the humble belongings of a young, poor couple: dinnerware (a wedding gift), clothes (of the thrift store variety), and enough books to strain the rear shocks of their '71 Chevy Vega, which they named "Kermit" on account of it being green.  Their most prized possession, an incorrigible little 2-year old named Robert Wade, was tucked tightly into his carseat, and given toys to distract him from the long hours and desolation of Southeastern Utah.

They drove all day and into the night, making frequent stops for little Wade and to check on the health of the car.  When they finally arrived in Gallup, New Mexico that evening, the sun had already fallen, and the small town (known by the natives as the "Indian Capital of the World" because so many tribes share its space) was aglow with street lights and illuminated bar signs.


My mother had lump in her throat as my father pulled onto historic Route 66 and drove through the heart of town.  To her left and to her right she saw the ugliness of Gallup.  Drunks stumbled in and out of bars and down the sidewalks.  Homeless men lay in the street gutters and paid no mind to passing cars.  It was an alien and unfamiliar sight for her.  She had grown up in the cozy bubble of Cache Valley, within the larger bubble of the state of Utah.  By steady increments peppered over a lifetime, she had grown accustomed to a world of vigilant church-goers and affable neighbors that would bring you a cheese and potato casserole if you fell ill.  She was the kind of woman who had only seen alcohol consumed in movies, and who, by her own admission, had never uttered a single swear word.

My father's skin was a bit thicker, his mind more resolute on living and working among the Indians.  While some of that could be attributed to his more PG-13 upbringing with siblings who enjoyed tormenting one another and a mother who frequently referred to her kids as "little shits," much of my father's obstinate confidence that night came from the fact that he had lived there before.  Two years as a Mormon Missionary on the Navajo Reservation put ice in his veins and assurance in his heart.  It helped him to see past the drunkards in the street, the raggedness of the town, and, with the exception of their puttering automobile, the profound absence of the color green.

My mother made it about half a mile into town before she burst into tears.

I spent the last week in Gallup for a conference hosted by Teach For America for school leaders in rural regions, and the trip gave me an excuse to do a little family history.  I had always known that my family had lived on the Navajo Reservation before I was born, and I had always known that my oldest sister, Mandy, was born there.  But that's about the extent of it.  I didn't know...

• That my family lived in Fort Defiance, Arizona, and that each day my dad drove 15 minutes south to Window Rock where the Navajo Tribal Headquarters were located.
• That my sister Mandy could not be born in Fort Defiance or Window Rock for lack of western medicine, and was instead born just outside of Gallup in a Christian-run hospital in Rehoboth, NM.
• That my sister Mandy was pale and bald.  The only other baby in the hospital that day was a premature Native with long, black hair.
• That my family only lived on the Reservation for 9 months.
• That they lived in a small government-built house with aluminum siding.
• That it was a phone call and a job offer from the late Congressman Gunn McKay to my dad that pulled my family from the Reservation and to Washington, DC.
• How hard it was on my mother, or how happy she was when that phone call came.

Throughout my week on the Reservation, I asked myself, "Could I live here?  Could I do what my dad did?  Could I bring my wife and family to this place and live and work?"  There is certainly work to be had.  Teach For America is placing as many teachers and alumni as they can on Navajo land, and the demand is still not met.  The Indian school systems are desperate for committed educators to fill the vacancies that seem to have a revolving door attached to them.  But so are school systems in L.A.  And D.C.  And Oakland.  And New York.  And North Carolina.

Could we live and work on the Res?  Probably.  Will we?  Probably not.  Celeste and I fielded a lot of questions while we were in Utah earlier this month about where we'll go after I finish my doctorate at UNC.  We really don't know.  We talk about returning to the West and probably will, but right now our future is as wide open as the endless horizon of the New Mexican desert.

TFA put us up in El Rancho Hotel & Motel, aka"Home of the Movie Stars", where many of the big names in Hollywood would stay when filming westerns.  The interior is a mixture of a rustic Southwest lodge, Indian Art, and Hollywood headshots signed by the big names that stayed there, including John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Humphrey Bogart.

Old school.

A Navajo silversmith.

The County Courthouse

Zuni Indian Dance.  The city of Gallup hosts nightly Indian dances in the summer.

Pyramid Peak.  We hiked to its summit on the last day of the conference.  For some of the participants, it was there first experience with a mountain.

The Power of Prayer

For those of us who practice religion, we know that despite our best efforts, we sometimes can't help but be bored by the banalities of our faith.  Or, better put, by our inability to properly focus our attention on the intricacies of our faith.  Call it what you will, sometimes you just stare holes into your wristwatch or slip into unconsciousness, your head teetering and tottering on your elastic neck while someone at the front of the room tries to save your soul from damnation.   I learned from my father years ago it's better to lean forward, bow your head, and give the illusion of serious, meditative contemplation.

I was thus engaged this morning during Sacrament meeting (in my defense, Celeste is out of town, and she is normally my first defense), when I heard a voice.  No, it was not the voice of God or angels, but it was nonetheless arresting.  It was the voice of the purest form of Southern Redneck; a true backwoods accent that would have put the entire cast of The Andy Griffith Show to shame.   My attention piqued, I looked up to see a fitting man for the voice.  At the pulpit stood a gruffly shaved gentleman I'll call Brother Ray.  Brother Ray is a heck of a guy.  A little rough around the edges, but he's good people, no question.  He just recently started coming back to church after years of inactivity.  He's possesses a unique talent for fixing things with his hands and a heart of gold that urges him to do more than he is asked for less than he deserves.  On this occasion, Brother Ray was wearing a light blue short-sleeved shirt with a forest green tie to go along with his closely-cropped red hair.  In his beautiful Dixiean accent, he explained to us that he had been asked to speak about the power of prayer.

"Well, I hope y'all don't mahnd, but I'm gonna' do somethin' a bit different t' start out."  He then bowed his head and started praying, and we, not knowing what else to do, followed his lead.

"Thank yeh," he said after he finished.  "I'm a bit nervous.  I haven't givnnuh talk in church since I got outta' prison."  He talked about how prayer had been there for him while he was locked up, and that through that experience, he learned that prayer can take many forms.

"You don't have t' be on yer knees t' be prayin'," he said.  "You don't have t' be crying tears big as horse turds er nothin'.  God don't care if yer at home er in yer truck er whatever, he just cares that yer doin' it."  

He then proceeded to tell us about how prayer had saved him from another round of incarceration after he was slighted by another man on an air-conditioning job.  He got in his truck and sped off to the man's home.

"I jumped inna mah truck and flew down the road hot as hell.  I was s' dern mad I thought 'When I get this sucker I'm gonna' break his neck.'  Then I decided to pray before I knocked on his door and got a feelin' to go eat somethin' first.  So I got me a burger anna Coke, and by the time I got back, I didn't have no more hate in me.  I was calm from the Holy Spirit, and I worked out a deal with the man jus' like that."

He topped off a wonderful talk, peppered with the occasional non-sequitur, by thanking his wife for sticking with him, and expressing his love for his two boys.  "The younger one there, I think he might a been born with twelve night-crawlers up his butt cause that boy can't sit still, but I love 'em."

I didn't sleep a wink.

How To Make a Cornhole Set

For those of you who know me well, you know that I was raised on sports, politics, and mixed cereal.  My siblings and I were very well taken care of in our youth, but with an attorney for a dad and a homemaker for a mom, let's just say we never learned how to build things, repair things, or perform tasks under the hood of a car.  Of course, we learned other things with as much if not more value (I can tell you the name of every president and state capital while juggling fruit), but it has hurt my standing with the bonafide country boys of the Carolinas when they all start swapping stories of replacing alternators or framing a house, and I'm standing there like a fool concealing the fact that the only tools I own came from IKEA.

If this looks familiar, then you know my pain. 

My oldest brother Wade has probably done more than any of us to self-correct our overly white-collared upbringing.  A few years ago he bought some land at the south end of Cache Valley and started to farm it.  Just like that, he went from being a business man to Farmer Joe (actually, he kept doing the businessman thing during the day, then farmed by night, just like Batman).  He went from knowing nothing about farming to tilling his own ground, raising his own goats, and castrating his own pigs.  Nothing says "I'm a man" like slicing off a pig's genitalia, then living to tell about it.

I wasn't ready for livestock castration (nor will I be in this lifetime), so I recently endeavored to do something that would callous my hands and require the use of highly dangerous power tools (using a tool that has enough torque to take off your left hand really lets people know you mean business) to bolster my blue-collar credentials.  And so, I decided to build a Cornhole set.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Cornhole it's a very popular sport down here in the South.  You find it being played at barbecues, tailgate parties, and on the infield of a NASCAR race.  It's kind of like horseshoes, but without the need of a sandpit, stakes, or a sledgehammer.  You can buy a set online, but building was easy and fun.  Here's how you do it, in the most technical terms I can summon:

1. Buy a bunch of stuff

You'll need wood, and lots of it.  I recommend purchasing it from a lumberyard or a home improvement store as opposed to chopping down a nearby tree, but whatever works for you.  You'll also want to pick up some nails, screws, a hammer, and several thick gauze bandages.

Avoid if possible.

2. Assemble the stuff

Cut the wood to size using a table saw, mitre saw, or extremely gritty sandpaper.  To assemble, put screws in the wood and connect the wood.  While Elmer's glue would probably be fine, these screws will ensure a stronger bond and a longer life for your cornhole boards.

3. Make the stuff look cool

Using primer, paint, and polyurethane, decorate your cornhole boards to your liking.  Favorite sports teams are very common, but as you can see from the example below, there's plenty of room for creativity (fresh tip: choosing a red color scheme for your boards is a great way to help hide those unsightly blood stains!)

An unfortunate decision.

4. Enjoy the stuff

Grab your cornbags and get throwin'!

Go Pack.  Go Heels.  Huzzah for summer.

Sun, Sand, and Silly Little Girls

I am twenty-seven years old.  Of this much I am now sure.  Celeste had to remind me of that fact yesterday when I was forking a hefty piece of birthday cake into my mouth, and little Ruby said, “Hey, can I have some of that?” to which I shrewdly replied, “When you’re twenty-eight years old, you can eat all the cake you want.”  Celeste then pointed out that by those standards, I was in clear violation.  I made an amendment to my statement and returned to my cake eating.

Pedaling around on the Boardwalk

It was all part of a wonderful weekend we spent in Virginia Beach with my sister and her family, most notably the three cutest little girls east of the Mississip: Olivia (Viv), Ruby (Rooster), and Sonoma (NomaSo).  It's become something of a tradition for us East-Coast-Olsens to come together while the bulk of the family gathers at significant gravestones dotting the northernmost tip of Utah.  We may be few in numbers out here, but let's face it family, Holly and I were always the life of the party.

Add into the mix that it was little Ruby's birthday over the weekend (it was in fact her birthday cake that I was gatekeeping and consuming), and you have a recipe for lots of squealing, smiling, laughing, crying, and more squealing (and more crying).  The girls were always two steps ahead of us in terms of activities and bright ideas.  Celeste and I hadn't even put our luggage down on our first night before the girls pulled us into a scavenger hunt they had carefully and meticulously planned.  There was ping-pong to be played (Viv and set the WORLD record of 13 consecutive hits in a rally), dice to be rolled, and presents to be opened.  They always had a good reason to be eating candy and a ready response for the words: "Girls, it's bedtime."  I love dem girls.

The Three Amigas

The girls took to Merlin, and Merlin took to the girls.  He's come a long way from being terrified of children (true story) to being their friendly canine companion.

Present time.

Jungle Mini Golf

NomaSo didn't really do much golfing.  After the first hole she gave her ball to her mother and her putter to her father, then spent most of her time playing on the props, getting in the way of our shots, and talking to herself.

Aside from all the pre-tween girly fun, we also made time for more sophisticated activities, like when Adam and I exposed our bare, flour-white chests and jumped in the frigid ocean, or when we lingered in an Arcade for longer than people with college degrees ought.  The whole weekend was an exercise in reconnecting with the youth that we routinely bury beneath hundreds of layers of stress, responsibility, and soul-sucking appointments.  It felt good to let it all out again.  We flew kites, we rented bikes, and we ate enough sugar to make us sick.  At one point I could be seen running (maybe more like prancing) down the Virginia Beach Boardwalk, and Olivia kept calling to me, "Jack, people are looking at you!" 

What's to be embarrassed about?

Showing them how it's done.

I always thought it was tacky and somewhat inhumane when people dressed up their pets.  But that's other people.

Call Me Master: Graduation, Mayberry, and Mother's Day

It was approximately two years ago that I discovered my true calling to be an educator.  Not a temporary teacher, but a lifelong advocate for kids.  After two turbulent years in the classroom, I applied and was accepted to be a Graduate Fellow of the Northeast Leadership Academy at N.C. State University.  Through the program, I would earn my Master's of School Administration, visit schools and attend conferences across the country, and learn how to live and thrive on four hours of sleep.  Yesterday it all came to an end.

While the graduation itself was wonderful, the highlight of the week came when the two people who made me landed at the Raleigh-Durham Airport.  My parents arrived Thursday night and brought with them the love and goodwill of all our friends and family back west.  The morning after they arrived, I drove them to Mount Airy, North Carolina, the birthplace of Andy Griffith and the town which "Mayberry" was based on.  They've always been diehard fans of the Andy Griffith Show, so taking them to the place where it all began was a special treat.

Also a special treat: those socks.

Mom and dad with the original "Floyd" from the Andy Griffith Show.  Dude's 90 years old, and still cutting hair.

Sheriff Olsen, stepping in for Andy.

Yesterday was whirlwind.  After an early-morning round of golf, we high-tailed it down to Raleigh for my graduation ceremony, which I nailed.  Didn't even trip or fall off the stage (they say practice makes perfect).  Then after that we went to a reception for the NELA Fellows and their families.  I got to introduce my parents to all my professors, advisors, and classmates, who I had paid handsomely to say nice things about me.

Today, of course, was Mother's Day.  It was great to actually be with my mother on this day.  That hasn't happened for quite some time.  Can't remember the last one, actually.  My dad and I made breakfast and dinner for the ladies, gave them naps and foot rubs, and spoiled them with some of their favorite treats.  We also linked them to their families back west thanks to Skype and Google Hangout (GH is far superior, just FYI).

The journey is far from over, and as wonderful as yesterday's accomplishment was, it's just another chapter of a much larger book.  But huzzah for finishing chapters, am I right?  I mean, finishing chapters in a book is one of those subtle satisfactions in life akin to parring a hole in golf or doing a one-armed pushup. So, by that strand of reasoning, earning my master's degree is like beating Tiger Woods in a round of 18 and sculpting my chest to look like Conan the Barbarian.

The Long Journey to Chapel Hill

God works in mysterious ways.  A tired cliche?  Yes.  But what follows is a story too riddled with coincidences to be one itself.

I first applied to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill's law school back in 2009.  I applied there and a dozen other schools, and got almost a dozen rejections.  As a result of my dimming prospects, I applied to Teach For America as a backup plan in case nothing worked out.  Coincidentally, it wasn't until after I had accepted the offer to join TFA that one of my top schools - the University of Utah - finally got around to offering me a seat in their program.  By that time I was committed.  Law school would have to wait for two years.  I was going to be a teacher in North Carolina.

One of the first things Celeste and I did when we arrived in our new state was visit the UNC campus.  In those first few months living and teaching in the Tar Heel State, I became more convicted about attending UNC.  It was a top 30 law school.  It was in beautiful Chapel Hill.  I would be an in-state resident, which meant that I’d get one of the most prominent and cost-effective law degrees in the 
nation.  It felt meant to be.

Then comes the matter of actually being accepted.  I mean, sure, I felt like it was meant to be, but I had to convince the admissions committee of the same.  My resume already looked good and was about to look better with TFA under my belt.  I had spoken at length - and in person - with the Director of Admissions at UNC, and she had helped me to craft a newer, sharper application.  Jackson Olsen 2.0.  The only thing, she said, was my LSAT score.  It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great, either.  Bring that score up even by a point, she said, and I would become an irresistible candidate.  As if that wasn't enough, Celeste and I went to the Raleigh Temple shortly afterwards, and it was there where I heard (or felt) the voice of the Lord speaking to me.  No voice of thunder.  No ray of light from the heavens.  Just a simple phrase that imprinted itself onto my soul harassed me like a mosquito: retake the LSAT.

When God speaks, you listen.  So, shortly after this experience, I began preparing in earnest to take the LSAT one more time.  For those of you who don’t know, the LSAT is a miserable test, and preparing for it is about as enjoyable as passing a kidney stone. It's full of logician's games and archaic text and advanced analytical reasoning that will bore you as much as it will confound you.  I hated that test, but who was I to argue with God?  For several months, I sacrificed my Saturdays (which are an extremely valuable commodity for first year teachers) and spent them at the local library with my nose in LSAT prep books.  I even took a Kaplan LSAT Prep Course that virutally guaranteed an improved score of 8-10 points.  8-10 points? I thought.  Heck, alls I need is ONE.  I smiled from ear to ear.  All I needed was one measly point.  Nine or ten points and I'd be ready to apply to Harvard or Notre Dame.

Well, I got that point I was hoping for.  Trouble is, I got it in the wrong direction.  As in, my score dropped - not gained - a point.  It wasn't a dramatic drop obviously, but it was just enough to rattle my cage and make me look like a complete jackass.  Lousy Kaplan.  I had never been so crushed.  I had done everything right.  I had heeded the Lord's counsel.  I had put in the hours.  I had gone the extra mile in every conceivable way.  I had fallen asleep at my desk too many nights to count, slaving for a test that did nothing more than slap me in the face.

Wounded but undeterred, I began again the long and arduous process of applying to law school. Of course, UNC and the University of Utah were again at the top of my list, but they could only find room for me on their waitlists.  The U of U waitlisting was extremely disheartening, seeing as two years earlier, they had accepted me outright.  Now, after joining one of the most elite social justice programs in the country (TFA), I suddenly didn't make the cut.  Lousy LSAT.

Months passed and nothing changed, so I did what every smart person does: I found a backup plan.  Well, actually, it kind of found me.  The Northeast Leadership Academy at N.C. State University was a specialized leadership cohort designed to prepare teachers to become school leaders.  When I was first exposed to the program, I thought it intriguing, and thought it a good Plan B.  Funny, I thought the same thing about Teach For America when I first heard about it.  And sure enough, by the end of April 2011, I wasn’t going to law school again.  And sure enough, a week later, the University of Utah called to invite me to join their class of 2014.  As for UNC, I never moved off their waitlist.

Two pitches, two strikes.  UNC didn’t look to be in my cards.

My two years at N.C. State have been fantastic, and while there it became undeniably self-evident that I was meant to become a school leader, not a lawyer.  I don’t regret the path I chose for even a minute.  In becoming a school leader, I discovered my “calling”, or at least a good portion of it.  And it was during my time at N.C. State that I also came to the conclusion that now that I was on the school leadership path and intended to stay there for the remainder of my career, that I should get my doctorate.  I'm already tired of being an AP, and even though I yearn to be a principal, I’m sure my ambition and natural instinct to lead will soon take me out of the school building altogether and put me into the Central Office or on a college campus.

I applied to the University of North Carolina in March 2013, and by the beginning of April, I was informed that I had been accepted into their educational leadership doctoral program.  I cranked that 3^rd pitch out of the park, and I couldn’t be happier to become a true Tar Heel after playing the part of a wannabe for so long.

It took me months to forgive God for my second LSAT debacle.  I was so mad at Him for sending me such a strong signal, then have the whole thing blow up in my face like it did.  Only it didn't - I just thought it did, because I was still trying to be a lawyer, and dropping a point didn't fit into my lawyerly future.  I've thought about it time and time again, and I realized that if it hadn't have been for that one point, I never would have joined NELA.  I never would have become a principal.  I never would have stayed in education, which is clearly what I was meant to do.  Had my score gone up - even just a point - I'd have gone to Carolina Law.  Had I not taken it again and just stuck with my original score, I'd be at the U of U, who wanted me until they saw my score drop and second-guessed themselves.  I didn't know it then, but that single point deduction may have been one of the greatest gifts God ever gave me.

Hark the Sound.

At Home in Henderson

The last of the boxes have been unpacked, the last of the art has been hung, and the washer and dryer are rumbling softly in the distance.  It's official - we are now residents of Henderson, North Carolina.

I remember my first impression of Henderson.  It wasn't in any form positive.  Celeste and I were passing through on a Greyhound bus from Washington, D.C. to Durham (we had no idea at the time that we would end up teaching there), and Henderson happened to be one of the stops.  It looked brittle and depressed.  Its hand-painted signs spoke to its primitive form of capitalism.  Once booming with industry, it had seen its jobs and prosperity leave the county in the late 1980s.  In turn, it had developed into a thriving community of crime, where dozens of rival gangs competed for drugs, money, and city blocks filled with abandoned homes, boarded up warehouses, and tin-roof trailers.

The Henderson bus terminal was little more than an empty parking lot next to an abandoned strip mall.  Only the Greyhound station and a barbershop remained in what used to be a small center of commerce.  Graffiti covered the paint-chipped walls.  As our bus screeched to a stop, a thug right out of a rap video walked past and stared down our bus like it had said something profane about his mother.  He wore the pain of the streets like a mask over his face.  I don't remember the expression I wore, but I do remember pulling Celeste close to me until we rejoined the Interstate.

Of course, Henderson really isn't as bad as my first impression led me to believe.  Sure, it's got its rough patches, but so does every town.  A subtle, under-the-radar evolution has been taking place in our hearts and minds about this place.  It started about 2-3 months ago when Celeste and I began seriously considering what lay ahead for us post-NELA (I graduate in 5 weeks!!!).  We talked about doctoral programs, job opportunities, and maybe even moving to Durham to be closer to friends.  But it was during these long conversations and reflections that we started to consider all of Henderson's assets rather than its liabilities.  We considered our good friends there.  We considered the benefits of living and working in the same town.  We considered the restaurants we loved there that seemed to have that down-to-earth, homegrown atmosphere where your food is served with a smile and a Southern drawl (not as common in the cosmopolitan Wake Forest), and tastes like someone's granny was actually in the kitchen working magic with a taste-tested recipe that dates back to the Lincoln presidency.  We considered the dramatic life improvements that would come with cutting an hour out of our daily commute.  Before you knew it, Celeste and I were actually talking about moving to Henderson.  What's stranger yet is that we were doing it with smiles on our faces.

The rest, as they say, is history.  With the help of wonderful friends and ward members on both ends, we were able to move into our new house on Saturday, and have spent the last five days turning it into home.  There's plenty of space for family and friends alike, so call ahead and reserve your North Carolina vacation today!

We're calling it: Casita Blanca

We think Merlin might be bipolar.  One second he's a nervous wreck, the next he's insisting on a photo shoot.

Previous owners were big UNC fans, which is not a problem for us.  Go Heels!

House and porch from the side.

Looking through the carport to the big, fenced-in backyard.

Side door.

Under the carport looking toward the street.

Backyard...volleyball, anyone?

Living Room

Dining room with swinging door to kitchen.

Half of the family room.  Merlin says hello.

Same half of the family room, just looking the other direction.

Office

Master bedroom

Guest bathroom.  Again, we had no objections to the previous owner's affection for UNC.

Guest bedroom (Charleston themed)

Mud/Laundry room

Family room with an adorable pup playing with his toy.

Look at the concentration!