On Juneteenth at 12:08 p.m. an unresponsive, 11-year-old
girl was pulled from the water at the Pool of which I am the Manager. “Unresponsive”
is a whitewashed way to say she had drowned. She was not with us. Life was leaving
her body, on the deck of the Rush City Aquatic Center that cold and rainy afternoon.
My team of lifeguards, an assistant manager and I began CPR, attached an AED
and worked, hoped and prayed that our response would be enough to bring this
little girl back.
We did and she is back to her old silly self and doing well…
I felt “called” to be there in that moment, much like I was
17 years ago when a similar near drowning happened with similar positive results.
The safety record at the Rush City Pool
is outstanding. We serve over 15,000 people a season and in 28 years have only
had 2 serious and significant, next level, emergencies. In near drownings using
CPR, I am 2 for 2.
In 2008, I felt “called” toward a career change into Law Enforcement.
Applications and interviews coupled with ride-alongs and background checks made
the flashing Red & Blue a realistic and attainable possibility. I nailed
board interviews and personality tests and adequately proved that I was physically
fit enough to do the job… the Minnesota State Patrol offered me a position in
their LETO program, and I proudly accepted. I was within arm’s reach of serving
and protecting for a living. A few short days later, their doctors felt otherwise.
18 months into the process, I was disqualified for being Color Blind. My call
to be a full time “rescuer” did not matriculate into the career change that we
anticipated. Although I was heartbroken at the time, I can see that God had
other plans for me.
I guess I’ve always had that RESCUER character trait.
In college I worked security at the local watering hole. Being
the only real dance club in a college town meant that I regularly went toe to
toe with some of the town’s biggest and baddest ruffians. Most of my Division II
football playing co-workers held a distinct size advantage over the customers
we served. Freshly out of the Marine Corps and weighing in between 185-200
pounds, I had to use my quick wit and award-winning charm to get others to do
what I needed them to do in a moment of crisis. That, and I was well versed in
Violence of Action. Hit them before they hit you. I got paid a Sailor’s
pittance to fight as a Bouncer, but made up for it by drinking my wages worth
of ale and spiced rum.
It was in college that I also worked as a councilor at a
residential treatment center for troubled youth. The Episcopal Community
Services established a place for the care, education and treatment for children
living in poverty and or suffering from emotional, behavioral, and addictive disorders.
It really was an eye-opening experience for me, and I like to say that 90% of
the time it was the best job that I ever had. But that 10% of the time that it
consisted of pure chaos and violence made it sadly one of the most emotionally traumatizing
jobs that I’ve ever been asked to do too. Seeing “behind the curtain” and
learning what these children dealt with helped me appreciate my own mess. I
learned to be thankful for my own Drag Path. Offered a long-term and full-time position
in my senior year of college, I respectfully declined and continued the course
to my career in education. Sadly, my time spent working in residential
treatment has helped me too many times in general education.
Prior to my time at Bemidji State University, some call the “Harvard
of the North,” I served my time in the often imitated never duplicated United
States Marine Corps. I stood on a Wall. I walked my Post. I was a worm in the
mud. I learned about Honor, Courage and Commitment while dedicating my life to
locate, close with and destroy the enemy by any means necessary. I am an 0311
Infantryman from India Company 3rd Battalion, 1st Marine
Division. I am a Raider. At 17 years of age, I signed the dotted line and
committed to giving four years of my life protecting the Constitution of the
United States against all enemies both foreign and domestic. I guess I stumbled
into the USMC recruiter in those fancy dress blues by virtue of being a good
guy willing to do what others sometimes can’t. I’ll spare you the rest of the
heroics but am only reiterating my history in the business of being a rescuer.
So where did this come from?
Recently, here at work while discussing a few of our most
vulnerable kids, I shared with our school counselor and behavior specialist, some
of my own childhood experiences with divorce, substance use, alcoholism, poverty,
and the accompanying uncertainty of life. It was a fascinating discussion about
the resiliency of children and what factors lead to them breaking a vicious
cycle and becoming a success story or learning to lead a life of questionable
choices. No doubt there typically is an adult or two along the way that offers
direction and a beacon of light to ships lost at sea. A coach, a teacher, a neighbor,
or an extended family member that provides stability, rules, and love. Luckily,
I had many.
One particularly memorable evening on the east side of
Aurora in 1983, my little sister, my mother and I climbed the stairs to our
second story apartment in the dark. I’m not sure if we were returning from the
grocery store or the laundromat or if we were just making our way home from the
babysitter’s house. I do know that it was dark, and it was late. As we
approached the front door, it was apparent that things were going bad quickly.
Our house had been broken into.
Sitting in the living room, covered in blood from smashing through
a window on the back porch, was my mother’s estranged 3rd husband. The
gentleman with a history of alcoholism, incarceration and abuse was not there
with good intentions. My mother sent me running for help. Unforgettably, I sprinted
through the alley and across Highway 25 to the Marathon Gas Station where a
clerk phoned 911. The flashing Red & Blue came in spades.
Rescuers.
Listening to this sad and personal story, our school psychologist pointed out that I have been a “Rescuer”
for a long time.
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