There's a Big Difference Between Hanging in There . . . and Hanging

Some years ago I lived in a community that had been in existence a long time, turned out to be utterly inbred, and was quite set in its ways--even if its ways led to disaster. I didn't know all this of course as I, as a fresh-faced newbie, set about getting involved in helping the local school district with various projects like PTA fundraisers and passing levies.

This devotion to education eventually led to my holding a seat on a citizens' advisory committe, followed by my being selected to fill a vacancy on the school board--a spot left open by a member who, unbeknownst to me at the time, had finally had enough and decided to get out of Dodge.

Looking back on it now, I guess I can pat myself on the back that I made it as far up the closed pecking order as I did before I, too, realized I was wasting my young life trying to garner a team to move the immoveable forward. The district, the community, liked things as they were, as they had always been.

That the illogical "principles" upon which their actions or inactions were predicated did little or nothing to advance the district or the community was of no concern to them. It was status quo all the way. The district's employee roster was so chockablock with friends and relatives, and friends of relatives, and relatives of relatives, and friends of friends that nothing, save the set-in-stone, ever got accomplished. And the set-in-stone had all the excitement, energy, and effectiveness of a mud brick.

Though this community sat squarely on a state route adjacent to a big city, an outsider living there could come to believe she had somehow stumbled into a mountain holler at the turn of the 20th century. All that was needed from central casting were some Hatfields, McCoys, and a still, and I've never been sure there weren't some of all three around somewhere.

My increasingly frustrated efforts in this esteemed position on the board of education finally included a decision to step on some toes to see if there was any life in the feet. I found life in the feet alright in the form of a resulting swift kick to my head if I dared to disturb someone's long-held domain. It was like trying to maneuver around a den full of hibernating bears who would not fully rouse if disturbed but would take a swipe at your vitals, claws extended, while rolling over to continue the nap.

No, nothing ever changed. . . except me. I slowly but surely morphed into a different person after months of turning over every rock and peeking under every foundation in search of a workable, modern idea that would fly and not cause someone's Cousin Roger to loudly proclaim his nose out of joint.

It all sounds harmlessly stagnant, but I learned from holding this position that if you attempt to operate honestly enough, word will get around. Eventually you will find yourself up to your neck in Deep Throats, all who would like to see things improve but can't risk openly exposing that Aunt Tilley might be pocketing some of the money from the football tickets she sells or that best friend from high school, Bill, never took any actual bids for the new furnace at the high school.

Ahhh, the dark side of public service. Which got a lot darker, black actually, when I learned through one of these self-styled 007's that the defunct landfill in the middle of the district was tainting the water at three of our schools. Where my children attended. Houston, we have a big, hairy, major problem.

Attempts to get involved, rile the community to action, wore me out physically, mentally, emotionally, and not only produced little result, but actually placed me and the few who would join me in a very precarious and, dare I say, dangerous position. Months passed. There were veiled threats made. And there were whispers of brain tumors and odd cancers in the allotment closest the landfill.

The people living in the district knew they had a water problem and either years ago knuckled under to pressure to stay quiet or chose to live with it by ignoring it. After all, if you know you have a problem, you're expected to do something about it. And that was not the modus operandi of the community fathers. I would wonder later if there was an organic connection between the water quality and this line of thinking.

So my husband and I did the only sensible thing we could. We cut and run. It's a decision we have never regretted. As a matter of fact, it's one of the best decisions we have made together in over a quarter century as a couple.

We followed my predecessor on the board and beat it out of Dodge, realizing as we turned out the lights it had been a mistake to settle there in the first place. All the red flags had been out, waving in our faces. We had only seen what we wanted to see. True, we had all our resources and thirteen years of our lives invested there.

I probably could have withdrawn from public life and the two of us could have continued on as we were, but it wasn't worth risking the health of our children. Enough was enough. Greener pastures existed elsewhere. Chalk it up to lessons learned, dust ourselves off, and choose a new location with more care and wisdom than we had chosen the old.

Yes, there is a big difference between hanging in there and just hanging. Especially when it's your children swinging from the noose.