Newly published poem "Barriers"
http://atonalpoetryreview1.weebly.com/barriers.html
.jpg)
MORE
magazine article link to "From Rubenesque to Statuesque"
http://www.more.com/2028/9134-how-i-got-fit
Link to newly published poem called,
"Had I But Known" in the newly launched on-line poetry magazine,
Eye on Life:
http://eyeonlife.squarespace.com/poetry-unlocked/had-i-but-known.html
Humor Columns
appearing in The Union:
"Very
Civilly Yours"
http://www.theunion.com/article/20100221/OPINION/100219676/1024&ParentProfile=1056
"Driving
me Crazy"
http://www.theunion.com/article/20100214/OPINION/100219887/1024
"The Ultimate
Coffee Klatch"
http://www.theunion.com/article/20100207/OPINION/100209828/1066&ParentProfile=1053
"Pine Needles
are Trying to Kill Me"
http://www.theunion.com/article/20100131/OPINION/100139991/1024&parentprofile=1056
"Oh, If Only the Graphical Could Be
the Real Me!"
http://www.theunion.com/article/20100124/OPINION/100129886/1024
Tis
Not Just Seasonal
http://www.theunion.com/article/20091213/OPINION/912129997/1024&parentprofile=1056
Jumper-start
http://www.theunion.com/article/20090926/OPINION/909259969/1024/NONE
Bah-Humbug,
It's My Bah-Birthday
http://www.theunion.com/article/20091017/OPINION/910169977/1024/NONE&parentprofile=1056
If
It Pleases the Court
http://www.theunion.com/article/20091024/OPINION/910239987/-1/rss02
Cat
Cardio
http://www.theunion.com/article/20091115/OPINION/911139978/1024
Love Thy Neighbor
http://www.theunion.com/article/20091129/OPINION/911279974/1024
************************************************************************
Diane's now a columnist for the newly launched
website:
www.mommyoptimistic.com
Check-out the columns that have found a home there:
http://www.mommyoptimistic.com/diane.html
Diane's master's thesis on Langston Hughes, Changing the
Exchange, is now published and available for reading in the
international, transdisciplinary, peer-reviewed scholarly journal,
Rose + Croix. Here's the link:
http://www.rosecroixjournal.org/issues/2009/articles/vol6_01_36_dean-epps.pdf
Lost
Boys Revisited
By: Diane Dean-Epps
We are losing our boys.
The fathers of our future generations. Removed from the
learning process and disenfranchised from education altogether,
it’s time to acknowledge this social problem that has been dumped
on the schools. As a teacher I’ve noticed an alarming trend, one
that has been present for far too long in the minority statistics
cavalcade that now finds itself a prevalent elephant in the living
room that is public education.
It’s no secret that kids are succumbing to boredom, drugs, alcohol
and poor peer and life choices in record numbers. It costs them
at least ten years to get back on track, if we can’t get to them
before they drop-out of high school. Is it the schools? Hardly,
although they are an early warning system for identifying the
problem. The teachers? A convenient, but inaccurate
supposition. Our culture? Certainly a contributor.
Plain and simple the client has changed. Our kids have truly
distinguished themselves as a unique generation, different from
the ones that preceded it. They are denizens of technology, many
of them keyboarding efficiently at about the same age that we were
planning who to sit next to during snack time. We certainly can’t
solely attribute this trend of losing our boys on the fact that
our kids know that hacking doesn’t refer to what you do when you
have a particularly brutal case of bronchitis. It’s a simple time
in some ways, namely, that so much is available. Bounty abounds,
but the choices are overwhelming for our children. Being normal
doesn’t seem to be enough. We have kids who are bored, but
overwhelmed. Seems like an unlikely combination and yet I’ve seen
it time and time again.
In
a perfect world, everyone’s family would be functional and all
needs would be met for everyone in the household. A kid’s biggest
problem would be that yet another goldfish experienced its last
gasp in the dirty fish bowl that was supposed to be cleaned by
the child who begged for that
very same fish. But things don’t work that way and needs getting
met should be a goal, not an ideal. There is a difference. The
goal can be met, the ideal seems to just get talked about. And,
yes, schools can be a mechanism of delivery for these needs. But
it should look different than the pattern of failure the child has
already experienced. Academics and punishment do not motivate
everyone.
As
the bureaucratic wheels grind, our children are trapped under the
wheels as misdirected political vehicles roll over our best
resources -- our kids. And I’m not talking about those kids who
have astronomically and seemingly impossible grade point averages
of something like 4.8, what we refer to as the “top level kids.”
The kids I’m referring to probably reside somewhere in the
mid-range on the educational mapping system, though they are often
our brightest on the intelligence chart. I’m talking about the
kids who find failure easy and success to be elusive and garnering
help for them is a challenge.
My
own school doesn’t even have adult English tutoring. Oh, sure,
you can go into a classroom where the “smart” kids congregate,
tutoring other kids who haven’t been demoralized enough by their
lack of success, so they’re going to choke down their humiliation
as another adolescent their age tells them, “Good job!” and lauds
them for their efforts? Why do we do that to our kids?
I’m a mom of two
daughters, but I’ve had the honor of “mothering” many young men,
as a high school teacher. While it’s not too late for
interventions at the high school level (never say, “Die!”), we’re
losing them way before that. Disturbingly, we tend to lose our
boys as early as elementary school which is when they begin their
long, slow trudge to apathy. While correlations to lack of
reading skills, learning disabilities and human development
principles may apply, it’s not that simple. About the same time
that girls find themselves subject to unbelievable peer pressure
that has their academic excellence negatively labeling them a
“brain,” it can perhaps be noted that boys face the bane of their
existence: reading. The former encourages a majority of females
to eschew their previous practice of acing all Science and Math
tests and the latter has boys checking out of all things literary
and thereby, “girly.“ When our backs are against the wall, we
posture, even as children.
Schools operate on rules and regulations so, often, school
meetings address a child’s lack of progress with a punitive
solution: Boot ‘em on over to a basic 3-R,“Readin’ Writin,’ and
‘rithmetic” school and get ‘em some learnin’. (What about the
placement of those 3-R’s?) Is that what we’re reduced to in our
socially savvy culture? Is that the kind of village we want to be
raising our kids in? The Village of the Damned? I’ve taught in
these programs and I’m here to tell you that you can’t help
children when both you and they are in the muck, without any sort
of program and I’m not referring to just an academic program. If
you have a moment and you’re not jumpy from overcaffeination,
visit an alternative school classroom some time. It can be a
frightening reality check. Each child has been less successful
than the next and they all commit a reverse move on the old axiom,
“The cream rises to the top.”
Many young men
live, breathe and matriculate failure early on and sometimes we
notice, but the process of intervening seems to hogtie even the
most adventurous of educational good samaritans. How do we help?
More testing, more homogenous grouping, more interaction with
other peers who aren’t cutting it. What happened to good, ‘ole
study hall?
Testing isn’t the answer to our collective academic pain. Would
we do that with adults? “Well, Joseph, you’re obviously feeling
the pain of loss, academic anxiety and facing a particularly nasty
challenge with that learning disability. By the way, sorry to
hear about your recent divorce. Please show up in the lunch room
next month and we’ll subject you to a long, mind numbing test for
which you can see no real purpose and we’ll threaten you with
those results, so that you won’t be able to advance our
promotional ecosystem. By the way, we care, but I’m sure you just
know that.” A ridiculous scenario, I know, but sometimes it takes
traveling to the heights of ridiculousness to level off at the
plateau of reality.
We
must not assess blame, but rather broaden the category to
classification as a social problem that we can address. Many of us
who work in the educational system agree on this tag, knowing that
schools are the last bastion for delivering what many do not
receive at home, namely, structure and accountability. Throw in,
boundaries, consequences, compassions, attention and programs that
deliver all or some of that too. Notice nowhere in there was any
mention made of stanines, state standards, test results or longer
instructional days. I say this, not because I have impressive
“ph-type” letters behind my name or an “I hate testing!”
bumpersticker on my car, but because I have seen the wreckage
firsthand.
Though I’ve
devoted years to working with at-risk youth, I would like to
humbly divulge to you that I have often failed in my attempts to
deflect and deflate the continuous onslaught of anger and
hostility that presents itself in the form of an often six-foot
plus, raging, adolescent student who has no use for academics.
Regardless of how much training we have, there are less and less
of “us” to go around, “us” being defined as teachers, counselors
and our ilk. We struggle to get these kids to attend school, even
three times a week, and are hammered by impediments like the exit
exam, even at alternative schools. These young people are as
mired in the educational muck as they are in bureaucratic red
tape. The exit exam becomes much more of an ironic name when it
is applied to children whose feet are poised at the exit sign of
every school door they’ve ever walked through.
We
live in a time of political correctness which, unfortunately, is
also hurting our children, specifically, by not fulfilling their
needs. I bet you’d be surprised to learn that high school
students can be pretty darned affectionate. I often kid around
with my students saying, the day I can’t hug my students, is the
day I’m really done teaching because they need that attention,
those hugs. They also need to know that they’re accountable.
They need community. These are not new ideas, so why is it we
must bring back that which works but has been rendered obsolete
for a variety of reasons, funding always being the answer to the
query?
What I see is a huge need for mentoring and a system that delivers
possibilities in a different way. What helps? Providing purpose,
connections, someone to talk to in an environment that hasn’t
already been established as negative. These kids frequently don’t
have anywhere to go. A place to fit in.
At
seven in the morning and I often see teenagers, up to no good,
already up and “At ‘em!” Do they like to get up early? No, but
often the reality of their existence is they either have nowhere
to go or nowhere good to go and what they come up with to
entertain themselves is not something you’ll be too thrilled with.
High school becomes the last chance saloon for so many of these
young men and the excuses that “my teacher doesn’t like me,” “I
don’t like this class,” or “I’m not going to college anyway” has
been played out. They’re beyond even offering up excuses. They
feel hopeless and it doesn’t seem very healthy to just keep
looking the other way.
After school
programs and programs linking youth with adults, often in the form
of business outreach are crucial. How important are they?
Imperative. Even in my small community these kids wander around,
left to their own devices and the devices of worn-out social
workers and beleaguered teachers. Parents long ago threw up their
hands shouting, “I don’t know what else to do.” I have been privy
to these conversations time and time again. What can we do?
Plenty. It’s tough for a teacher to make a student accountable
when they’re with them only in the daylight hours, so that’s why
it’s critical to bring supportive relationships into play.
We
need to call this situation for what it is and stop this culture
of blame. Take responsibility. Okay, so sometimes it doesn’t feel
like it should have to be your responsibility, but you don‘t feel
as though you should always be the one to load the dishwasher and
you do it anyway, don‘t you? Otherwise, paper plate sales would
be way higher than they are.
They’re our kids in our communities, so you see, and there’s no
escaping the connectivity. Companies can sponsor nearby schools
and many communities already do this. It’s a great way to make
sure the generation gap remains a gap and not a chasm. These
days, it really isn’t just about the money. It’s about time,
wisdom and patience. Be ready when you interact with teenagers
because while many are amazing, the ones we’re talking about, the
ones we’re losing, will not have the welcome mat out.
How
long do we just sit back and ponder this alarming trend? Yes,
truancy laws and other punitive methods might take a stab at
accountability, but it’s temporary. you know what really helps?
Mentoring, mentoring, mentoring. We must, not only identify what
works and get programs in place, but maintain these treasured
programs, while also giving participants the tools they need.
This is a great plan for success. Oh, yeah, and the best thing
that works? Not cutting the programs that do work, but instead
accelerating the proliferation of others. Vocational programs
have taken a major hit and that is a big mistake. We will take
the major hit for that. For those who are not motivated by
academics, where are they to go? This question becomes
rhetorical.
Homogenously
housing kids who have been unsuccessful in school is a rollover
that seems convenient, unless you‘re trying to help these kids.
It’s not the answer. Being accountable to our young people and
making a pact with one another that we will keep trying, is what
will lead us down the correct path at this fork in the road. We
are dramatically affected by one another’s successes and failures
and that shouldn’t be a lesson we’re taught over and over again.
Diane Dean-Epps | What If?
"My
newest book,
KILL-TV, is one of my "what if,"
stream-of-consciousness moments parlayed into a plot. As a
mere lass in my twenties I spent several years working in
the radio and television industry where lessons abounded
daily, minute-by-minute deadlines were de rigueur, and my
video-to-script writing cost me all use and feeling in my
verbs.
Back in the day," when I
discovered the magic wrought by shoulder pads and their
seemingly mysterious ability to make my waist appear smaller
than it actually was, I came up with another mysterious
point to ponder: What if I wrote a comical and suspenseful
story that was based upon a combination of irritating
characters I’d worked with in broadcasting and, lest there
be any residual hostility on my part necessitating expensive
counseling, I just plain killed ‘em off?” You know…cheap
therapy. This began my year-long journey into the
development of my most ambitious novel to date,
KILL-TV, just by virtue of
continuity, scene changes, and plotting gyrations.
While some kind folks, to whom I am not related, have
commented that I am mildly amusing, humor does tend to
always find its way into anything I write. Having said that,
maintaining a humorous tone, snappy dialogue, and a fast
pace can be a daunting task, but it lent itself well to the
setting of the broadcast journalism world, a world that
looks pretty danged different from the inside out. I’m often
asked why I left the “glamorous” world of broadcasting for
my full-time gig as a teacher of Generation Y-ME?! to which
I reply cleverly, "Because." Truth be told, as I neared
thirty, I was subjected to the tandem aural experience of
hearing my biological and sociological clocks ticking; I
wanted to contribute to society and use what little
experience I had gained to serve people other than myself.
Go figure how that kind of thinking can be achieved and
channeled through a girl who refused to shop anywhere, but
at a store rhyming with, "Lacy’s," until she
was…well…thirty.
It may be said that humor is in the mind of the humorist
– okay, you got me – I said it and I’m not so sure it makes
sense, but just keep in mind, this is my wrap-up and I’m
trying to sound all smart, profound, and what-not. With a
book that is touted as "humorous," the trickiest part is
creating a connection with the reader by accessing the
commonality of the absurd and the things that make us all
laugh. Being funny is extremely subjective and when I’m
fortunate enough to be in front of someone, whether I’m
doing stand-up, or just performing one of my "bits" gratis,
I at least have the dual advantages of vocal and facial
inflection. Writing does not offer this and no amount of
exclamation points, italicized words, or clever dialogue can
make someone laugh if the tone hasn’t been set first.
In writing, one way I establish tone is to rely upon
situations that have happened, but then exaggerate the heck
out of them. This is how I created the scene between Leslie
and the recently deceased, Lincoln, where she gets her cute
little knit top stuck on his tie clasp. As she attempts to
set herself free by rocking back and forth in his lap, she
creates the illusion that she is in an unseemly coupling
with the boss, and this is in full view of anyone walking by
in the outer hallway area, which is just on the other side
of the control room glass partition. Combining the horror
that a character would feel over discovering her dead boss
with a slapstick type of physical interaction that is
misinterpreted by a key character is no mean feat, but I
hope I’ve succeeded. It is my fervent hope, desire, and wish
that I have created a tale in
KILL-TV that amuses the masses who
will graciously welcome these characters into their lives,
even briefly, and perhaps beyond if the alliterative
protagonist, Leslie Lloyd, agrees to a future foray into my
next book.
_______________________________
Sacramento
magazine October 2005
FRUSTRATION ABOUT THE STATE OF PUBLIC EDUCATION
DRIVES A HIGH SCHOOL
TEACHER TO CONTEMPLATE A NEW CAREER IN THE
POLITICAL ARENA.
BY DIANE DEAN-EPPS
PHOTOGRAPHY BY BETH BAUGHER
MAKEUP BY SHERRI MORRIS OF BRUSHWORX
Why would I leave the glamorous world of public education
where, oftentimes, it's a fight just to get a class set of books,
let alone four pairs of scissors that work at the same time? And
don't get me started on the paper scarcity, which practically
qualifies clean white paper as the Edsel of teaching instruments.
The Garfield poster hanging in my classroom used to say it all,
admonishing, "You don't scare me. I teach school for a living."
But you know what? I am scared. I'm scared that we're not coming
up with real solutions because we haven't identified the real
problems. Teachers are not the problem, but they make for an easy
target.
These days I feel a little like I'm a first-time speaker at an AA
meeting when I meet new people. "Hello. My name is Diane and I'm a
high school English teacher." Folks tend to nod their heads
sympathetically as they exclaim, "Good for you! I couldn't do it."
Perhaps my contemplation of "educator flight" is because my
profession has taken on the patina of "endangered species," in
which case, as a teacher I may be the proverbial dodo. Rounds of
well-meaning but off-kilter legislation like "No Child Left
Behind," which I lovingly call "Every Teacher Left Behind," has
many of us working on resumes that haven't been updated since We
listed our employment objective as "wanting to make a difference."
No Child Left Behind, in particular, forces teachers to prove they
are "highly qualified" even though the state of California has
already certified them as such, creating more work for everyone,
particularly the teachers. This does not benefit children.
It all has me thinking. And we know what happens when someone
with just enough knowledge to be dangerous begins thinking. An
intellectual Molatov cocktail: a new trilevel hairstyle,
conversion to a vegan lifestyle or, as in my case, entering a
career change turnstile. Maybe I'll run for Director of Sanity in
the Department of Education, or write speeches of some sort for a
liberal-leaning, bipartisan-thinking dude or dudette.
Maybe spunk is responsible for this new journey. I've always had
spunk, and spunk has helped me almost as often as it's gotten me
in so far over my head I need a fireman's ladder to read the
directions for what I'm doing. Yes, I've got the spunk gene, and
it was a spunky little me who entered the field of education after
leaving the world of broadcasting 15 years ago. No one could
understand then why I would leave the glitz (translation: nonstop
stress) of television for teaching, and maybe no one will
understand why I now contemplate departure from teaching into
politics. But I want all of you to know why.
It's not so much that I am "over" my chosen profession as a public
school educator as I am "over" the rhetoric and poor behavior that
has me wanting to put educated adults who are more interested in
sound bites than sound solutions into a corner on a collective
time-out until they can "use their words," "talk nicely" and "be
respectful." You know. Like teachers tell grade school kids to do
when they're acting naughty. I want to lend my voice to the plebe
legislative chorus that has come out of the trenches and really
knows what we've been fighting for, instead of listening to those
who were last in a classroom when chalkboards abounded. (For the
record, mostly we use whiteboards now with cool, colored pens. I
won't kid you: I'll miss writing on those whiteboards.)
Many things lead me to the Capitol besides my failed sense of
direction that consistently has me exiting, unplanned, on freeway
off ramps that always seem to lead downtown, presenting a true
metaphor for life. There is a natural progression at work here
that cannot be simply charged off to rampant idealism. Not only am
I a teacher, but I am a writer who has been telling other people's
stories yea these many years. Now I want to tell all of you the
stories of my "special interest" group: our kids. That's right.
Your kids. My kids.
No Child Left Behind, in
particular, forces
teachers to prove they are "highly qualified" even though the
state of California has already certified them as such, creating
more work for everyone, particularly the teachers.
Recently, in one week, I dealt with a student's emotional outburst
as a result of a pregnancy scare, and her classmate needed to talk
to me-during class-because he was having a whole lot of feelings
bubble to the surface because it was the anniversary of his
father's death. Along about that same time, I had to call Child
Protective Services because one of my students told me that she
had nowhere to live and nothing else to wear because her mother
had kicked her out. Granted, every week isn't like this one. Some
weeks I even teach a little grammar, conduct a little
state-testing soft shoe and require an essay to be written that
doesn't use nonexistent verb combinations like "could of."
Teaching is rather like many jobs that are high stress, high
pressure, high maintenance, but have some great day-off patterns
(think firefighters and nurses). From the outside looking in, the
career looks attractive and easy and, dare I say, heroic. The
reality is that an individual would last about the time it took to
write this article if the only motivation was a run of long
vacations. After approximately 180 days a year of enduring our
students' collective pain, it's possible that the eight-week
vacation teachers enjoy every summer really is a mental necessity.
These sweet, needy, verbal children are our special-interest group
and we drop everything when they open up, but it costs us. Even
so, it's not enough for me to limit my efforts to the classroom.
Maybe the fact that I connect with them is exactly why I'm
compelled to seek an audience on their behalf. I wish to work
with those who still believe, as I do, that the legislative system
is mainly populated with a majority. A majority of good folks who
work for their constituents on a daily, and sometimes hourly,
basis. Who honestly try to be, well, honest. These are the folks
who feel it's important to visit a cross section of schools, not
just the cute little classrooms where people wear funny hats as
they hold books from which they read in a sing-songy voice, but
also schools that sometimes seem as though they are prisons, minus
the sound of barbells clunking together after each set of reps.
Sure, I may be leaving my "cushy" job where I get up at 5 every
morning, stop and get a latte that costs half of my hourly wage
and toddle on in to run my small business of 180 workers, some of
whom want to be there. It's downright luxurious using those Dollar
Tree pens I purchase that occasionally write the first time,
perching on my thrift-store chair that's missing a crucial bolt so
I list to the right-or is it to the left? (perhaps a subliminal
political message there.) And the workload. Now that is sweet. I
continuously show up ready to do my job-teaching material per
state-mandated English content standards to high school
students-while I listen to my students, trying to meet their
emotional needs, as I read in the papers about the dismantling of
my STRS retirement program. All of this as I fight for things like
dictionaries, tables that can stand longer than I can and mileage
reimbursement for a job-related conference I attended six months
ago.
Why would I contemplate leaving the field of education and try my
hand at framing events in a highly charged political environment?
OK, I'll answer a question with a question. How does that basic
criteria differ from the job I am currently working? Because with
this big mouth, active pen and idealistic viewpoint, I unknowingly
have been politically active my whole life. Whether I'm spiritedly
debating the issues surrounding the exit exam, sticking up for
teenagers and their need for vocational options (no, they don't
all go to college and yes, it's true that some do begin college,
but unfortunately the majority do not finish), or simply showing
up to teach a group of underaged voters, I am in the fray. In the
political arena. Because that is where you are when you care. When
you devote your life to causes, you learn to harness the passion
and effect positive change. It's not OK to sit back and let others
do it.
Oh, sure, I've fantasized about the sound of my high heels on
those beautiful marble floors at the Capitol as I clop around
fighting for justice like some sort of middle-aged superhero,
maybe Estrogen Woman. I've even thought about a dream press
conference where the Democrats and Republicans sit side by side
and rediscover the power of compromise. Oh, how I want what I
want, but I know things just don't work that way. And then there's
that visual where I'm dressed to the nines-heck, maybe to the
15s-talking to legislators and being heard by them. But that's
always a teacher's fantasy. Saying words that will motivate.
Inspire. Get through to those who aren't big on listening. It
would be a thrill to have people, even adults, actually listen
intently to me without commenting, "Dude. Did you, like, totally
dye your hair this weekend?" Heady stuff, this contemplation of
political recourse through verbal discourse.
And yet I am fearful-fearful of
not being with my teenaged "peeps" and hearing their funny cadence
of speaking, their queries about how my weekend was, their endless
complaints about homework, the early hours of our school and the
icky smell that makes my oId portable classroom reek like warm,
day-old raccoon. I am fearful that I will lose my way without them
to guide me daily, because any teacher who is worth the money it
takes to pay union dues knows that a teacher learns much more from
the students than the students learn from the teacher. I'm not
sure if I'll ever run for elected office, but I know that running
away isn't an option. What was that freeway exit for the Capitol
again?
Young Marine leaves us a lasting legacy
By Diane Dean-Epps,
Adam Strain was perfect, really. On the inside and out. Oh,
I'm not saying he hadn't had any youthful transgressions,
but that was part of his perfection, his kindness, his
promise.
And now he's gone. So young. So fast. So unreal. Like a
figment of our imagination. Wasn't he just standing right
over there? Perhaps the only bright spot in this darkly
painted canvas of loss is that he was - he remains - real,
and he will forevermore affect our lives with the many gifts
embodied within his goodness - goodness being a word
synonymous with the man who was Adam.
I was Adam's Communication Arts teacher at Nevada Union high
school in his sophomore year. Though I'm a biological mom of
girls, I have the extreme pleasure of also being a school
mom to so many students, boys being a personal favorite for
potential mothering. Adam stands tall in the front row of
this precious crowd, both in my memory and in my heart of
hearts.
I liked Adam immediately when I met him, and I suspect I
would stand tall in his crowd of "Adam fans" on that one.
Masculine, confident, sensitive, creative. What was not to
like? He often took pity upon me, good-naturedly laughing at
my goofy humor. And special. An overused word and yet how
can "Adam" and "special" not be used interchangeably?
When I last saw him, we had a great chat in the SPD parking
lot about life, melting ice cream be damned. Yes, I was one
of those who implored him, "Do you have to?" when he told me
of his military desires, hoping against hope that his
fledgling acting career would take hold before that
eventuality.
He was determined, fiercely loyal, honorable, and he loved
so much. Perhaps in this widening circle of sorrow, that's
one of the most painful parts about our loss. That he had so
much to lose. That we had so much to lose. No one knew more
what he risked by serving his country than Adam. This was no
last ditch Plan B for him, but rather a long-held
destination of primary choice.
I'm sure he would be floored at the outpouring of emotion on
his behalf. I'm also sure that, while I wish desperately to
provide his beloved family, his treasured fiancee and his
cherished friends comfort, I know that the only thing I can
really provide is my gratitude for Adam's friendship.
Gratitude for the great talks we had about lessons learned
in life. Gratitude for the pleasure Adam gave the ears when
he spoke in that deep, drawl of a voice, and most of all,
gratitude for his belief that it was his job to protect us,
not just "someone else's."
Adam Strain was the kind of guy who would take a bullet for
you. I am deeply aggrieved to confirm that he did.
Diane Dean-Epps is a friend and former teacher of Adam
Strain, who died last week in Iraq. Diane lives in Grass
Valley.
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