Waving

When I’m in my cow suit, I wave a lot. Heck, living in this same small city all my life, I wave a lot when not in a cow suit. On last weekend’s bike trek, we’d wave to support crews to let them know we were good. I was on the sidewalk at ISU today in the suit and cape waving as high school students arrived for a technical lesson given by the Cow-culator. Many passers-by honked and waved back. I waved to my chiropractor at a softball game last night. I waved to my college speech teacher while walking my dogs today. Lots of friendly waving.

I submitted a letter to the local editor today—at his request. It was an updated version of one I’d sent a couple weeks ago addressing an anti-discrimination ordinance in Pocatello. The ordinance was passed with modifications satisfying almost everyone in my court. The letter I submitted today feels like I’m waving my hands in distress. And I am. It also feels like I’m waving my hands in a way that will call attention to me and facets of myself that I’d prefer to keep private. Privacy is lost with this much waving, but if I don’t raise my hand, I won’t raise awareness.

A girl I played rugby with died last week. I sadly wave goodbye to her here. Her death is suspected to be a suicide. I’d run into her recently and exchanged a smile and a hello. My mind always turns to a worst-case-scenario, and I have wondered if issues at the heart of the ordinance stirred something in her. It may not have, but I will always wonder. And until I quit wondering, I have to keep waving.