VIEWPOINTS
Saturday, April 22, 2017
East Oregonian
Page 5A
The power in every student’s voice
H
ow can words lead to change?
When I wrote the question on the
board, and saw the six words stretch
out to my right as my hand held the pen, I
stopped and stared. Six individual words,
and yet so much
more than six
simple words at
the same time.
I looked at
the 27 pairs of
eyes watching
me, waiting for
my next move,
and I realized
that the question
I had chosen to
give me strength
as I maneuvered
through the year
was not going
to disappear and
then reappear,
depending on where I was or who I was
with.
The word voice was coming to life (for
more than just me) right under the date in my
very own classroom with the beautiful souls
that fill the desks and spaces of my heart
each weekday from August to June.
The question hung in the air like twine
dangling from a gate as we said it together.
“How can words lead to change?” We
repeated them and heard ourselves speaking
words in a normal Monday morning sort of
way, but at the same time, we heard what the
words were asking.
It was a phrase, a question, full of a
quiet kind of strength — so useful when
used in the right way, but lifeless without
someone — the right one — to bend and
twist and pull at
it, shaping it into
something strong
and beautiful
with purpose and
poise.
Our words
are like strands
of twine. They
are strong when
they’re together,
but alone, they
can be weak.
And when
we’re smart
Photo courtesy Lindsay Murdock
enough to loop
one end through
another and pull
tight, we realize that what we’ve done, what
we’ve said, and even what we’ve made is
one of the most powerful things one could
ever hope to hold in their hands, let alone be
a part of creating.
I stood in front of my class and reminded
them how powerful voice can be. I
remember saying to them: “Your voice
is a tool that can change everything in an
instant — as you scribble across a paper, or
open your heart while reading something
meaningful, or even — perhaps — when you
whisper and the words you’re thinking and
feeling barely slip off your tongue.”
After a short but real discussion about
those six words, we, as a class, read a story
of a woman that had spent a good portion
of her life using her voice on paper and in
public gatherings in powerful and purposeful
ways. A story about a woman that never saw
the actual outcome of the strength her voice
truly held.
I don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly
certain that she knew that what she was
doing was changing things, but the actual,
physical change didn’t come until she was
gone. She had weaved her way through
several spaces and places, using grace and
dignity to stand up for what she knew was
right. She was opposed, and fought against,
but she never gave up. She held strong under
pressure and was used in just the right ways
— similar to the several pieces of twine
dangling from gates, and bales of hay in my
own life.
I may never know how my words might
change the world around me — in my home,
at the drive-up window, in the quiet of my
car, in my classrooms, in my church, in my
neighborhood, in board meetings or even in
my own journal that no one may ever read
but me.
But I can promise you this: I will daily
remind myself, my own children, and the
children entrusted in my care each school
year, that we should never cease using our
voice in the biggest and best of ways in
doubt that it is making a difference.
Our words — our voices — are like
L indsay M urdock
FROM SUN UP TO SUN DOWN
pieces of twine — hanging on a gate, just
waiting to be used to become something
stronger when they’re tied together. Count
on it.
■
Lindsay Murdock lives in Echo and
teaches in the Hermiston School District.
The right to
The mystery of ‘Monk’ Fessler work
in Oregon
I
I
W
By RON LINN
don’t know why he was
called “Monk” Fessler.
That’s what we kids, in
the neighborhood, knew
him by. All the adults called
him Monk Fessler. Maybe
it was just the times.
Nicknames were used more
then than they are now. I
bet there is a story behind
the name “Monk,” but I
don’t know it.
His real name was
Frank Fessler, and we
kids in the neighborhood
of Silverton where I grew
up were afraid of him.
He was “different,” and
different people scare kids,
so we were scared of him.
I never heard of him doing
anything dangerous to
anybody and, looking back,
I just don’t know who
Frank Fessler really was.
He must have been in
his early forties or so when
I first knew of him. “They”
said he was a prize fighter
in his youth, known for
his ability to take a punch.
That’s what “they” said
the problem was: “punch
drunk.” Took too many
punches while a boxer and
got his brain scrambled.
Monk was known for
his physical strength
and stamina and many
tales were told about his
exploits.
A local town had
an annual hop festival
weekend, which included
a walking race from some
point to another; quite a
distance. It was said that
Monk would enter in this walk race every
year and, at about mile eight, he would
think about the beer waiting as a reward
at the end of the race and break into a run.
This of course got him disqualified. People
marveled that at mile eight he would have
that kind of energy, to break into a run.
This was before people ran for fitness and
recreation so distance running was only
done by training/trained athletes. That
he would be foolish enough to run, and
therefore be disqualified, amazed people.
It was understood that he liked beer, and
a free beer was the reward at the finish line.
Frank lived with his mother on a small
acreage among hop yards, and always rode
a bicycle for transportation. He didn’t just
ride that bike; he attacked the bike with
head-down, pedal pumping vigor. It was a
standard single speed, coaster brake bike, in
a light green color. I don’t know that he ever
drove a car.
P
rominent in the town where I went
to grade school was a John Deere
tractor dealership. Every year they
would have an open house, which my grade
school took advantage of for a field trip. We
would all be marched down the hill to the
dealership, each classroom shepherded by
its teacher. This was a holiday for us, filled
with John Deere tractor movies, displays of
farm machinery, and free pop and hot dogs.
All you could eat!
Of course the whole farm community
would be there. Men, standing around in bib
overalls or blue jeans, looking at the newest
farm equipment and talking over the merits
of each. Frank would be there also, with
his simple face, standing with the groups of
men, wanting to belong.
This was, by any measure, a carnival
atmosphere but that does not excuse what I
saw happen that day.
The men challenged Frank to pick the
front end of a small John Deere Tractor off
the floor. Frank approached the tractor and
experimented with the grip. Trying this way,
and that, Frank struggled amid the clamor
from the pack of men circling him. I admit
the challenge was interesting and his effort
was remarkable. He got one front wheel off
the floor and the tractor skidded sideways.
No doubt: He was very strong. It was the
way they went about it, that group of men,
taking advantage of the simple man. Egging
him on. Even at 7 or 8 years old I knew
there was something wrong with the way
they were treating him. Surrounding him
like a pack of jackals, not making fun with
him, but of him.
It wasn’t right.
Frank had a way of nodding his head
in the affirmative, a really quick head nod,
almost like a nervous tic. I think it was
a reaction to his extreme need to please
people. They promised him a free hot dog if
he could lift the tractor. What? The hot dogs
were free anyway!
O
n Sundays, after church, my dad
would stop the car, full of us Linns,
at the little market across from that
tractor dealership to pick up the week’s
supply of meat from the cold storage locker
we rented in the market.
On this particular Sunday our 1949
sea mist green Ford sedan was parked in
front of the market. As we returned to the
car, there was Frank Fessler, straddling
his green bike. Mom and we four kids
ducked into the car, on the opposite side,
like rabbits into the safety of the burrow.
Dad, however, stopped where Frank was
and started visiting with him. I fugitively
watched my dad standing there, in white
shirt and tie, suit pants and suspenders.
His manner was calm, his face and hands
engaged in conversation with Frank Fessler.
Frank stood straddling his bike with his
positive nodding twitch. We were all
nervous. Frank was “different.”
The conversation ended and dad took his
place in the driver’s seat. Mom asked “What
was that all about?” once we got underway.
Dad replied, “He said, we were just alike,
his bike was green and so was our car.”
n my early teen years
three of us guys formed
a hay hauling enterprise.
We had an 8N Ford tractor
and two four-wheel trailers
we hooked in tandem. With
vigor, we would load the
bales in the field and stack
them wherever you wanted
them.
We got a call one day
from a dairy on Barlow
Road. They needed hay
hauled and stacked.
When we arrived on the
job site at the appointed
day we found we would be
working with Frank Fessler.
This kind of spooked us.
Frank was “different.” He
was also known to be very
strong and worked like a
crazy man. We thought we
were pretty good workers
and felt we had a challenge
before us.
Dean drove tractor and
Gerald, Frank and I carried
bales to the trailer from the
rows of bales. Soon Gerald
went up on the trailer and
stacked bales that we threw
up to him. Then he had to
stretch over the side with a
hay hook to catch the bales
that formed the last few top
layers.
So the morning went on,
bale after bale, trailer after
trailer, load after load.
We were watching Frank
for a burst of superhuman
work that justified his
reputation. What we saw
was a cheerful worker who
held his end and fit right in
with us boys.
The early morning
started to lean toward noon,
and the sun bore down. Frank began to
fade. The trailer had to wait for him some
times and he couldn’t get the top bales up
to Gerald very well. Gerald almost came off
the load trying to hook the bale as high as
Frank could get it.
We watched.
We could see it embarrassed him. The
legend was running out of gas and proving
to be just like us. I started taking all the
outside rows and as much of the top row
bales as I could do. Dean dropped a gear in
the Ford. Frank was now just a middle-aged
guy on our team.
Some of the farms we worked for still
held with the tradition of feeding dinner
to the help at noon. Snyder was one such
outfit. Mary Snyder set an outdoor feast
before us on the lawn under the trees: fried
chicken, potato salad, baked beans, bread
and butter and ice cold lemonade.
Frank revived.
He tore into the chicken with huge piles
of potato salad floating like islands in the
baked beans. Between bites he explained to
Mr. Snyder how we boys just about killed
him out in the field. He bragged on how
good we were at loading and unloading
those wagons of hay. There was good-
natured kidding all around the table. We
passed a comfortable and fun hour talking
of the work and the simple events of the
morning. I decided right then I wanted to be
like my father, and like Mary Snyder. Not
like that pack of jackals in town. Whoever,
or whyever Frank was, he deserved better
than that.
We spent the hot afternoon putting up
hay for that farm, with Frank Fessler as a
member of our team, and he didn’t scare us
anymore. We busted ass to make it workable
for him and, to hear how he told it, we were
heroes and supermen.
If you live a million days, pray you learn
a million things.
■
Ron Linn lives in Stanfield where he was
an agricultural pilot for nearly 40 years.
The Bend Bulletin
hen is Oregon government going
to make jobs a priority?
The Legislature seems intent
on making it harder to create and keep
jobs. It’s looking at meddling in scheduling
for businesses. It’s looking at new taxes
on businesses. And in Senate Bill 1040,
it’s looking at ensuring that before an
Oregonian can get a job he or she could be
compelled to join a union or at least pay
dues to support it.
SB 1040’s chief sponsors are Sens.
Ginny Burdick of Portland, Arnie Roblan
of Coos Bay and James Manning of Eugene
and Reps. Jennifer Williamson of Portland,
John Lively of Springfield and Dan Rayfield
of Corvallis. They are all Democrats.
The bill is about so-called right-to-work
laws. Unions hate them. That’s because
right-to-work laws remove mandatory union
membership dues as a condition of getting
a job.
Oregon is not a right-to-work state.
In Oregon a private employer can have
an agreement — called a union security
agreement — that union membership is
essentially compulsory. If an employee
doesn’t want to join the union, they can still
get a job, but the employee has to pay dues
to the union.
That compulsory support for unions is
problematic, at the very least. It is easily a
violation of free speech. Is it right to force
people to pay to support a union when
their political views may not agree? No.
Most states have banned union security
agreements as a tool to attract and retain
businesses. Not Oregon.
SB 1040 fits into this debate by
prohibiting any local government in Oregon
from banning union security agreements.
Why do that? Why not allow a local
community to decide what’s right for itself
rather than legislators dictating one policy
for the entire state? What problem does this
bill solve other than providing a way for
some legislators to cozy up to unions?
Oregon has every reason to try to make
itself more attractive to employers and
not invent new ways to be less attractive.
Unfortunately, the state’s Democratic
leaders would like to go in the opposite
direction.
Quick takes
Student with permit brought
gun to BMCC campus
Not only is it perfectly legal for him to
carry, but given that I am not old enough to
get my own concealed carry license I feel
safer while attending BMCC Hermiston
knowing that there are good guys that are
armed.
— Paden LaCoursiere
Even being a public school, it’s still
private property and you have no right to
carry on some one else’s property if they
decide to not allow it. The Constitution only
protects you from the government, not the
land owner.
— Serafina Schuening
People that have a CHL are permitted
to carry on public property with very few
exceptions. Schools are not one of the
exceptions, no matter what the signs say.
— Mike Navratil
Everybody wants to stop gun violence,
but instead we will persecute law-abiding
citizens, it is easier to do.
— Jouche Hoeft
One of the great lessons of the Twitter age is
that much can be summed up in just a few words.
Here are some of this week’s takes. Tweet yours
@Tim_Trainor or email editor@eastoregonian.
com, and keep them to 140 characters.